A Sense of Duty
by athelas63
Summary: 2005 Mithril Awards SemiFinalist. COMPLETE. An unexpected death hits Faramir hard, and some people have lessons to learn about life. Eowyn, Aragorn, and others with several OC's. Later chapters will be PG13.
1. A Death

**Disclaimer:** Faramir, Eowyn and the rest belong to the Professor, of course. The original characters belong to me, and I'm rather fond of them. If you detest them, please say it quietly, no rude comments, but I'll always take polite feedback!

**Note:** This is rather a continuation of the story _Conversations with the King_, and it is all Raksha the Demon's fault! In that story I gave Faramir and Eowyn lots of kids, including a son Barahir. When Raksha pointed out to me that the Professor said Barahir was Faramir's GRANDSON, I instantly knew what had happened to mine. So, again, blame Raksha!

This story might go a little easier if you read the other one first. There you'll meet the kids when they are younger. If you choose not to, here's a quick catch-up: In this one it's about 30 years after the War of the Ring, and Faramir and Eowyn's seven (yes, seven) children are: Elboron – 27 yrs., Theoden – 25 yrs., Eomund – 23 yrs., Barahir – 20 yrs., Sam – 18 yrs., and Estel and Alasse – 15 yrs.

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**Chapter 1 – A Death**

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"See, the little crack here?" Eowyn spit on her finger and rubbed away a bit of mud on the hoof she held between her hands. "That's where the infection got started." Beside her a dark head bent to stare at the hoof.

"That little thing?" Eowyn smiled at her daughter's skeptical tone. "Are you sure?"

"I am sure, Estel. Now you must soak it in warm salt water and keep it wrapped until the inflammation bursts." She saw Estel's dark brows draw together impatiently.

"But Mother, that will take days. Can't you just pare it down with the hoof knife and open it up?" Eowyn released the hoof and the large grey horse flinched as the sore foot hit the ground. Turning her gaze to her daughter she suppressed a smile.

When her twin daughters had been born fifteen years ago, Eowyn had known they were not identical, Estel's black hair and Alasse's blond locks immediately showing their fraternal bond. But as they matured their differences became much more evident, and now as young women, Eowyn sometimes wondered if there was anything about them the same. Alasse had grown into a delicate, fair-haired beauty, reminding Eowyn of herself at a young age, except that her temperament appeared to be that of Faramir's mother Finduilas; she was quiet, shy, good-hearted and easily brought to tears.

Estel, on the other hand, seemed to have inherited every rough and tumble aspect of both her uncles, Boromir and Eomer. While Alasse sat happily stitching on the porch, Estel's greatest joy was to be racing across the fields of Ithilien on the back of her grey stallion, or spending time in sword drills with her mother or father. She was tall, broad, and strong, with a wild streak in her that had her parents faintly worried and already discussing marital possibilities, mostly among the Riders of Rohan, for a man capable of loving her while taming her impetuous nature. She crossed her arms before her now and frowned at the horse as Eowyn laughed out loud.

"No, I cannot just pare it down. It is too deep. You knew that when you asked me, didn't you?" Estel's guilty shift of her eyes gave her away and Eowyn sighed.

"You are too impatient, Estel. Now, take him back to the stables and get started."

"Mother!" Alasse's voice floated down from the veranda where she had been listening to the discussion and half-heartedly embroidering a coverlet. "Someone's coming."

Both Eowyn and Estel's attention was turned to the group of riders approaching the house. They made their way slowly across the meadow that lay below Faramir and Eowyn's home in Ithilien, the brilliant setting sun glinting brightly off bits of metal on saddles, bridles and – Eowyn frowned. There was no mistaking the tall rider in the front of the column even if the black banner emblazoned with a white tree did not fly above him today. There was no standard at all with the group, only the riders and a small wagon, but Eowyn had no doubt it was Aragorn and she straightened. It was not unheard of for the King of Gondor to escape his responsibilities from time to time and arrive at his Steward's home for a brief respite. She started toward the veranda, trying to think of anything already in the kitchen appropriately special for a late dinner, when something about the approaching riders drew her attention back to them.

This was too small a group, smaller than the other times Aragorn had come for a friendly visit. Eowyn narrowed her eyes and raised her hand to block the sun, trying to count how many there were as they came closer. The slight figure beside the King was a woman. Perhaps Arwen? Eowyn's gaze moved back through the group. The tall blond soldier riding behind the King seemed to guide his horse awkwardly, his arm in a sling and his face bandaged and Eowyn gave a little gasp. Elboron! Beside her, Estel looked at her mother with concern.

"Is that Bron with the King?" She said uncertainly. "He's hurt!"

Eowyn's eyes had already moved past Elboron and found another familiar figure. Theoden, dressed in his dark scholar's robes, but without his wife, who had recently announced the future arrival of Eowyn's first grandchild. Beside Theoden, his new armor flashing in the last of the sun's red streaks, Sam's fair head bent as though he was studying the saddle beneath him. The group moved slowly across the meadow, the wagon trundling along behind them, and Eowyn felt a tremor of fear crawl up her spine. "Go get your father," she said quietly, not even noticing when Estel turned and flew up the stairs into the house, calling for Faramir.

In his study, Faramir heard Estel's frantic call. "Father!" He looked up from the frayed scroll he held before him on his desk as she raced into the room and smiled at her wide gray eyes and sweaty face; she looked so much like Boromir some days. Looking closer at her, however, his smile faded. "What is it?" She pointed behind her. "Riders are coming! It's the King, and Bron is with him and he's hurt, and Mother wants you."

Moments later he was beside Eowyn at the foot of the veranda stairs, his arm encircling her waist while she clutched at his hand. They waited as the group approached the house, coming to a stop only a few feet from them.

Eowyn raised her eyes to meet those of the King, feeling as if time were slowing down, grinding to a halt as the clear grey eyes of Aragorn rested on her, full of sadness and sympathy. He swung down from his horse, as did Arwen, her own face pale, and they approached her and Faramir as behind them Elboron and his brothers also dismounted and started toward their parents.

Eowyn suddenly found she was shaking her head and stepping backwards into Faramir's arms, away from the King, trying to avoid looking into that kind and compassionate face, knowing whatever news he brought would be a bitter blow to her heart. "No," she said in a faint voice. Anything that had brought Aragorn and Arwen to her home accompanied by her sons could not be good. Arwen came forward and grasped her hands.

"Eowyn," she said softly. "We come with ill tidings." Eowyn felt Faramir's arms tighten around her as Aragorn placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"My friend," said the King. "There has been an accident." He saw the grey eyes widen in shock and then cloud over with sorrow.

"Barahir." The name was torn from Faramir. He had also noted who accompanied Aragorn, and who did not. Aragorn's hand gripped the tense shoulder muscles and he nodded. He watched as the information settled over them, crushing them with grief, their hands clutching each other. Eowyn turned, pressed her face to Faramir's chest and they stood motionless for a moment, trying to absorb Aragorn's words.

Behind Aragorn, Faramir's sons stood waiting; waiting for the King's words to penetrate. On the veranda the girls stood in shock, their hands unconsciously straying to grasp each other. Faramir was the first to get control, forcing down the sadness, willing himself to master it, as he had learned to do with so many emotions long ago. "What happened?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Aragorn turned to Elboron, who seemed to stumble forward and bury his face in his mother's shoulder, and Eowyn found herself crying at the same time she soothed her firstborn, this grown man who stood nearly a foot above her. She ran a gentle hand down his face, taking in the bruises and the large gash the bandage covered, and carefully grasped the injured arm. "What happened, Bron?"

"We – he was assigned to my company last month – we were on the quay, in Osgiliath, loading ships." Elboron raised tear-filled eyes to his mother. "We were moving men south, thought ships would be quicker." He choked, sobbed, forced himself to speak. "A cart horse broke loose, something frightened the animal, it came charging down toward the docks - " he shuddered before he continued. "It ran right into us, several of us, standing there. He was thrown into the water, along with some others. I jumped in after him, but we had on our armor…and the water was rough. The boats were moving, tossing up and down on the water…I tried to find him." His voice broke and sobs shook his lean body. "I tried, Mother, I tried. I'm sorry."

Eowyn could only hold him closer to her as she felt her own heart breaking. Faramir's arms around her tightened and she felt rather than heard the quiet moan that escaped him. Hot tears blinded her and she could feel Faramir holding her close, whispering meaningless words in her ear and when she looked up the rest of her children had pressed around her and Faramir, each of them wanting to feel the closeness of each other. Theoden, more like Faramir than ever now that he was grown, kissed his mother's cheek gently before wrapping his arms around his father. The girls came down the steps together and clutched at Elboron, their faces white as the tears began to roll down their cheeks, while Sam, his own face streaked with tears, wormed his way between his father and Theoden, resting his head against both of their chests.

Aragorn stood a few feet away, waiting for the initial shock to subside. The boys had already wept, in Osgiliath and on the ride home, but he knew the sharing of grief could sometimes help heal it and he waited as they all wept together as a family. He saw Faramir finally raise his head and speak softly to Sam and Theoden, who released him so he could reach across and draw Elboron to him. He kissed him gently on the forehead and pulled him close, holding him as tightly as he could.

"I'm sorry, Father, I tried…I tried to find him…" Great wracking sobs tore through Elboron and his knees went as if to buckle, and for a moment Aragorn was concerned that Faramir would not be able to support the weight of his son, but he saw him straighten and shift to absorb the burden as he stroked the blond head on his shoulder. "Shh, it's not your fault, Bron, not your fault." He murmured consoling words as he reached over and took Eowyn's hand and she turned to him, keeping her arms around Alasse and Estel.

When Elboron finally stepped back, he pulled his little sisters back to him and Aragorn saw Faramir allow his formidable self-control to break down for a brief moment as he lay his head against Eowyn and she took him in her arms and kissed him, pressing her lips to the black hair now touched with grey. It only lasted a moment, however, and Faramir was once more standing upright, his eyes wet but his face carefully controlled. "When?"

"Early this morning," Aragorn replied. "We found him shortly after noon."

"And the others?" Faramir's voice was rough. Aragorn shook his head. "Three others injured, besides Elboron. No one else killed." He wondered if that was consolation or further injury to them, that Barahir was the only one. Beside him Faramir knew his thoughts. "So no one else has to bear this," he said. "That is good." Aragorn nodded slowly.

"I am sorry you must bear it, Faramir," he said, his voice soft and gentle as he looked on his beloved friend. "I wish I could spare you this sorrow. I would that I did not bear such news."

Faramir shook his head. "You are here, that is more than enough." He gave Aragorn the smallest of desolate smiles, nodded toward Arwen. "I am grateful." Arwen had been standing quietly, waiting. Now she stepped forward and put her arms around Faramir, then Eowyn, speaking quiet words of comfort. Eowyn nodded and rested her head on the Queen's shoulder as Arwen gently stroked her hair.

"I have sent word to Eomund in Pelargir," said the King. "I have given him leave to come home immediately." He nodded in the direction of the other boys. "Each of you is to take some time at home." They acknowledged him with bowed heads and "yes, Sire."

With a sigh, Aragorn turned back to Faramir and Eowyn and motioned toward the small wagon that had accompanied him from Osgiliath. "He is inside."

Eowyn steeled herself and turned toward the wagon, only to be checked by Faramir's grip on her hand. "Do you really want to, Eowyn?" he asked softly. She looked at him, knowing he was only trying to shield her, keep her from gazing on her worst nightmare, the sight of a child of hers dead. But the White Lady of Rohan had never flinched from hard tasks.

"I must see him, Faramir," she answered. She had looked upon death before, seen its cold hand upon loved ones; her parents, her uncle. Death was no stranger to Eowyn, and she would see Barahir's face once more. Faramir had known it would be her answer, had only stopped her to let her know he would spare her if she wished. Seeing the resolve in her eyes, he took her hand and they approached the wagon together.

It was small, the canvas covering keeping it deeply shadowed, and the blanket-wrapped body inside on a soft pallet was barely visible in the fading light as they climbed in. Eowyn knelt down, feeling as if she couldn't breath. Beside her, Faramir tightened his grip on her hand as he leaned forward and pulled the blanket back, revealing Barahir's white face. Eowyn gave a little gasp, seeing him there, Barahir, and yet not, the light in his eyes gone, the expressive mouth stilled. He appeared unharmed, whole, only the small bit of crushed skull beneath the fair hair revealing the place of injury. Gently she reached down and brushed his blond hair back from his face, placed her hand on his cold cheek, her fingers tenderly rubbing along his cheekbone. She rested her face against the cold flesh of her son's and gave him a gentle kiss, noting that he had been brought to them exactly as he had been found, his clothes still wet, his blond hair soaked with water and a small amount of blood. She knew Arwen had understood that preparing him for burial was Eowyn's duty, and her privilege and she silently thanked her Queen. Beside her, Faramir kept his grip on her other hand as he gazed into the still face.

Faramir had seen men dead, hundreds of time. He recognized the unnatural stillness, the strange pallor of the skin, the look of dazed surprise, as if the dead man could not quite comprehend the end of his own existence. But none of those soldiers he had seen on the many battlefields he had walked had been his own flesh and blood, certainly not his child. Unconsciously, he loosened his grasp on Eowyn's hand and took Barahir's, cold and already stiffening, and held it to his own cheek, now wet with tears, sudden flashes of memory racing through him.

Barahir arriving nearly a month early, a tiny, wrinkled scrap of flesh that cried insistently for the next six weeks, driving his parents to distraction and his older brothers to intense dislike. Learning to walk, left unattended for only a moment by the nurse and following Eowyn out the door of the nursery and to the stairway, tumbling down and landing uninjured, laughing at his mother's frantic hug. Age eight, riding the huge roan gelding that Elboron had taunted was too big for him, his blue eyes narrowed with determination. Fourteen, head over heels in love with the new cook's assistant, following her around and writing terribly rhymed love poems that were found by Sam and Estel and used to ceaselessly tease him. Eighteen, leaving for Minas Tirith in his new armor, his blond hair shining in the sun as he rode away on a black stallion given to him by his mother.

Faramir felt the crushing pain deep within him, the pain that he had thought he had forgotten, had only felt a few times in his life, had hoped he would never feel again even as he had known it would not be possible. His hand lifted as though under its own power and lay softly on the pale hair and he let out the tortured sob he had been holding back as the grief tore at him. "My son." He found Eowyn's arms around him and they wept together, each of them clinging to the other for reassurance. Finally Eowyn pulled back a little, reaching up to lay her hand alongside his cheek. She saw the agony in the grey eyes and pulled him close to her again, knew that only she would see the depth of his sorrow, and as soon as they stepped from the wagon, Faramir would retreat into the reserve and control where he felt most comfortable as he faced the others. She pressed her forehead to his for a long moment, until his labored breathing had steadied before whispering in his ear. "Ready?" He nodded, squeezed her hand, and they climbed down from the wagon.

The others waited, standing uncertainly at the steps of the porch, Elboron still hugging both the girls closely, Sam, Eowyn was slightly surprised to see, leaning with his face buried in the King's shoulder, Aragorn's arm wrapped tightly around him. Theoden was nowhere to be seen. Noticing her searching look, Alasse spoke up. "He went to get Nan, Mother. He said she would want to hear it from one of us."

Eowyn nodded, once again seeing Faramir in her second born. Of course Theoden would think of Nan. Nan, over seventy, excused from all her household duties in her last years and content to stay in the small cottage Eowyn had had constructed for her near the house. She had helped Eowyn birth all of her children, had rocked them and fed them and it was right that now she would be nearby as they prepared Barahir for burial. Burial. Suddenly Eowyn looked over at Faramir. Would they lay Barahir to rest here, in Ithilien, or should he be taken back to Minas Tirith, to lie in the tombs among his many ancestors? She selfishly wanted him near, perhaps on the small knoll that could be seen from the back part of the veranda, close enough for her to walk to the grave whenever she might wish. But as a son of the Steward, it might be argued his place was in the city, among the people. She saw Faramir's grey eyes resting on her and knew he could read her thoughts as they raced through her mind.

"He shall stay here, near us, among the fields and trees he loved," he reassured her softly, even as his own gaze lifted to the King's as if seeking agreement. Aragorn nodded and gently disengaged himself from Sam to approach his Steward, his friend, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"I thought that would be your wish. I would ask, however, that you allow us a memorial service in the city." He paused and looked at them. "The people love you, Faramir, and they will want to show their grief for your loss." Faramir merely gave a short nod of understanding and Aragorn continued. "I have sent riders to Rohan and Dol Amroth. Are there others you would wish to notify?"

Faramir was thoughtful, then shook his head. "None that I can think of." His eyes were distant and dark, the sadness in them nearly a tangible thing as Aragorn turned to Eowyn.

"Where shall we take him, my lady?"

Eowyn loosened her hold on Faramir's hand and drew herself up straight. "Into the hall, my lord." She gestured toward the small meeting hall that had been constructed on the far side of the house, nothing large or ornate, but sufficient for those times when the Prince of Ithilien had to entertain or host meetings. Now it would hold the body of her son.

"My lady!" Nan's ancient, cracked voice came to her and Eowyn turned to find the old house matron approaching, her wrinkled hands clutching Theoden's as she leaned on him, tears streaming down her face. "My lady," she said again, reaching out to lay her hand along Eowyn's face. "'Tis a hard and bitter day," she said softly. "A hard and bitter day." Eowyn nodded and Theoden released Nan into Arwen's care to join his brothers, his father and his king as they removed Barahir's body from the wagon and carried it into the hall, the five of them easily sharing the burden. Eowyn could not hold back her moan as he was carried past.

Inside the hall Faramir nodded in the direction of a tall stone table along one side of the room, and they lifted the body and reverently placed it there, Sam being the last to release his hold, clutching at his older brother's clothing for a few desperate seconds before turning into Faramir's arms. "Father," he choked and Faramir hugged him close, knew the agony of losing a cherished older brother, the protector, the companion. He spoke no words, could only hold him tightly and share his grief.

The new house matron, Ardith, as capable as her predecessor, appeared with a trio of housemaids, each carrying a basin of warm water and towels and anything else that might be needed. Ardith herself carried Barahir's best tunic, a richly embroidered blue silk that had matched his eyes. Faramir saw Eowyn flinch when she saw it and he stepped back, taking Sam with him, as she approached Barahir. She let her hand rest on his brow for a moment and Faramir saw the tears fall onto the still, cold face. He turned and motioned for all the others to leave the hall. "Leave us, please." The look on his children's faces was almost more than he could stand until Aragorn stepped forward and shepherded them toward the door.

"We will wait for you at the house," he said softly and Faramir nodded his thanks, glad the king understood, and then turned and dismissed the maids and Ardith. He and Eowyn alone would see to Barahir, prepare him for the last journey.

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"He will be missed, my lord," said the man, a rough, laborer-looking personage with gapped teeth and a scar across his nose. "He was always a good lad."

Faramir tried to say something, to acknowledge the man's words, but in truth he was too tired to do more than nod and grasp the calloused hand the man offered. He could not remember how the man had said he had known Barahir; something about doing carpentry work for him once, he thought. It didn't matter. This man was just one of the hundreds of citizens from Minas Tirith and the surrounding area who had passed by Faramir in the last two days. They blurred in the Steward's memory until all he could remember was a mass of people, each offering a hand and words of condolence. Faramir's back ached and his shoulders had small points of fire in them. He had not slept at all last night. Beside him Eowyn smiled mechanically and took the carpenter's hand as he passed by.

Aragorn watched the Steward and his wife from across the room, noting the grey tinge to Faramir's face and the sharp angles in Eowyn's. They were both brittle with grief and fatigue and Aragorn made a small motion with his hand to a guard beside him. "How many more are waiting outside?" he asked when the man bowed before him.

"Hundreds, my lord," came the soft reply. "They are lined up nearly to the next level."

Aragorn frowned. He had asked Faramir to bring Barahir back to the city for a memorial service, and he had done so, even though Aragorn could plainly see he would have preferred to stay in Ithilien. But Faramir recognized that the Steward's family belonged to the people of Gondor, and so he had agreed to let Barahir lie in state in Minas Tirith, in the Citadel, and to receive the people. They had come by the hundreds, passing by for hours, and two days later it was beginning to take its toll. Aragorn knew the people wanted to express their sympathies to the Steward and his family, but he could see from their faces that Faramir and Eowyn must have a break soon. Earlier the strain had sent Alasse back to her chambers in a fit of weeping. She had returned in a short time, but the King saw her exhaustion mirrored on the other faces before him. Estel's eyes were swollen from crying, while Theoden's young wife Elabet, already going against the healers orders to be in bed because of her morning sickness, looked ready to drop. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then spoke to the guard once more.

"Go outside and bar the outer door." He kept his voice quiet, knew if Faramir heard him he would protest, would stand beside Eowyn and greet the people until both of them fainted dead away. "Say to the people that the Steward and his family must take some food and rest, and will be available again tomorrow morning."

"Yes, my lord." The guard dipped his head and smoothly rose and left the room, totally unnoticed by Faramir, Aragorn was glad to note. In a few minutes the line of visitors had slowed to a trickle and soon after the room was empty except for Aragorn and the small retainer of honor guards and Faramir and his family. The King saw the Steward look up with a mixture of surprise and relief when the last man in line had passed by him. Aragorn crossed the room and slipped an arm around Faramir's shoulders, noting the tense muscles under his hand.

"You must take some rest, Faramir," he said softly.

"But, there were others, still waiting-"

Aragorn shook his head. "They will wait, my friend, and you need to rest."

"But-"

"As does your wife." Aragorn added the one thing he knew would change Faramir's mind. Immediately Faramir's gaze turned to Eowyn, took in the lines around her eyes and mouth, the exhausted droop of her shoulders. He put his arm around her waist and she let her head rest against him. Nearby Elboron gathered his brothers and sisters to him, speaking softly as he encouraged them to rest a bit and try to eat. Theoden was leading Elabet toward their chambers but he paused to offer a place where they could all be together.

The sound of the door opening turned Aragorn, frowning. He did not want Faramir and his family disturbed any more today. They had given enough of themselves to the public and he was ready to send whoever entered right back out. Instead, he checked himself when he saw who it was. Eomund had arrived from Pelargir.

Aragorn watched as Faramir's middle son strode across the room. Eomund, who had all of his father's grace and none of his humility; all of his mother's passion but none of her gentleness; all of his grandfather's sharp tongue and none of his shrewdness. This son of Faramir's had given his heart to the sea at a young age, his life direction set during a visit to Dol Amroth when he was only a boy, and he walked with the easy, rolling gait of a man at home on either land or water. He was tall and good looking, his black hair worn long and loose, past his shoulders, his dark blue eyes glittering under his brows and he reminded Aragorn very much of Denethor as he had known him in his younger years as he crossed the floor with proud strides. He paused before the ornate bier that held Barahir's shrouded body and his shoulders suddenly slumped as his hand reached out to lovingly rest on the brilliant white satin that covered his brother. A long moment passed and then he straightened, ran a hand over his face and moved toward his family.

He stopped and spoke briefly to his brothers and sisters, giving Elboron a brusque hug, while still managing to be careful of his injured arm, gripping Sam gently on the shoulder, brushing a fleeting kiss across Elabet's cheek as he grasped Theoden's arm tightly and their foreheads touched and soft words were spoken. The girls were gathered into his arms and held tightly and Aragorn could see Eomund whispering into their ears as he kissed each of them, his lips pressing first against Estel's dark head, then Alasse's fair one.

Turning away from the twins, he reached for his mother and Eowyn melted against him as her tears started afresh and his arms went around her automatically, holding her close and pressing his cheek to hers. "Mother," was all he said.

In only a few moments Eowyn straightened, dashing her tears away with her fingers, and Eomund faced his father. Faramir reached out his hand to welcome him, and Eomund took a quick step back. "Murderer," he hissed softly enough so that only Eowyn and Aragorn heard him. Eowyn gasped. Faramir's face blanched and his arm dropped as he stiffened in shock and surprise. "You killed him," said Eomund. "As surely as if you ran him through with your sword, you killed him."

"Eomund-" Faramir's voice held a vaguely pleading note.

"You knew he hated soldiering!" Eomund kept his voice low but it was still full of venom. "Yet you forced him to stay in the army." His face twisted with anger and grief as he looked at his father. "You of all people should know how that feels, to be made into something you are not."

Faramir closed his eyes for a moment and flinched ever so slightly, as if the words had struck him physical blows and Aragorn considered intervening, but when Faramir looked up, the blank curtain had fallen, the veil that he had learned to use so early in life and that he had perfected through years of hard, necessary practice when facing his father. Now he faced his son with an expressionless face and steady voice. "I have always done what I thought best, Eomund, and I thought it best that my sons knew how to defend our lands."

"He hated it." Eomund's voice rose and the others in the room turned to stare at him. "He told me so."

Faramir nodded tightly. "He told me also, and I asked no more of him than I have of others, that he give three years to the army. After that he could choose something else, as Theoden did."

"Your own son, Father! How could you?"

Suddenly it was the Steward of Gondor who faced Eomund, and the flat grey eyes hardened as they fixed on the young man. "How could I ask of others what I do not ask of my own sons? How can our armies remain intact if we do not train new soldiers? How can we defend our lands? Peace is not certain, Eomund, we must always be prepared-" He broke off, realizing everyone was listening. Aragorn saw a muscle twitch in his cheek and he seemed to stare past his son for a moment. "It was my decision and my duty and I need not defend myself to you."

Eomund glared at him with revulsion and anger. "Well, now you can do your duty and bury him," he said fiercely, his blue eyes snapping.

"Eomund!" Eowyn's voice cracked like a whip as she stepped forward, sliding her hand into Faramir's and facing her son. "You will not speak to your father in that way!"

Eomund gave Faramir another look of loathing. "I don't know where my father is. I am speaking to the Steward of Gondor." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then bowed his head slightly toward his parents. "I do not wish to trouble you with my presence. I will return to Pelargir today, so as not to cause you any further discomfort." With that he made an elegant, mocking bow to Faramir, spun on his heel and left the room, his boots ringing sharply on the polished stone floor. Elboron and the others, having only heard part of the conversation, watched with puzzled faces.

Aragorn saw the hurt flit across Faramir's face for a moment before his features set into an expressionless mask and he turned to Eowyn. "Let me take you to our chambers, so you can rest a little." His voice had a faint tremor to it as he spoke and Eowyn gripped his hand harder.

"He is upset," she said softly. "He spoke out of grief, Faramir."

He nodded. "I know." He bowed his head toward Aragorn, "My lord," and he and Eowyn turned walked toward the door, pausing before the bier where Eowyn stroked her hand across the white satin. After a moment they left the room holding each other, their steps slow and weary. Aragorn turned to the door, intent on following Eomund, only to be stopped by Elboron, who motioned his brothers and sisters to go on without him.

"He said something cruel, didn't he?" Elboron's green eyes were narrowed in his bruised and bandaged face as he questioned the King. Aragorn nodded, but did not repeat Eomund's accusations. Elboron sighed with annoyance. "He can be so spiteful, say such hurtful things. And he and Bara were very close." He looked down at the floor for a moment before squaring his shoulders and straightening. "I had better go talk to him. He cannot leave, it would hurt Mother too much." He paused. "And Father, although I suspect right now a little distance between them…" he left the thought unfinished. "With your permission, Sire?" Aragorn nodded and followed Elboron through the door.

They caught up with Eomund as he was mounting his horse, a small, rangy beast that Elboron knew he must have purchased in Osgiliath for the journey home, since he spent most of his time on the water and owned none of his own. Upon seeing Elboron coming toward him, Eomund quickly gathered up his reins and was preparing to kick the horse into a quick escape, but when he glimpsed the King behind his older brother he grimaced and waited, chewing his lip angrily. Elboron reached out to grasp the horse's reins and Eomund glared down at him.

"Whatever you have to say, Bron, I don't want to hear it." His blue eyes looked hard but Elboron could see the glimmer of tears on the dark lashes.

"Don't go, E'mun," he said simply. "Stay for the funeral."

"I can't." Eomund's voice was shaky but he forced himself to concentrate on his anger and the quaver left. "He's dead and it's his fault." The memory of his father's quiet response further enraged him, gave him the strength to pull the reins away from Elboron's grasp. His older brother could only stare at him.

"Whose fault, E'mun? Father's? Do you really believe that?" He shook his head. "Maybe you think it's my fault, too, then. I was there." Neither man remembered the King as they stared into each other's eyes, and Aragorn stayed quiet, realizing there was little he could say that would reach Eomund better than his brother's words.

Eomund tore his gaze away from Elboron's and looked down at his hands. "I cannot stay, Bron. I cannot stand there and look at Father, not when I know Bara begged him to let him leave the army, to let him do something else." He raised haunted blue eyes to his brother.

Elboron awkwardly took the horse's reins in his good hand again, leaned against the beast's bony shoulder and stroked it, a stray thought in the back of his head absently comparing it to his own Rohirric mounts and finding it sadly lacking. "I know he did, E'mun. He told me so, last winter."

"Then you know Father refused."

"Yes." Elboron nodded. "We talked about it, he and I, and I agreed with him."

"What?" Eomund's voice shook at the imagined treachery. "You agreed?"

Elboron sighed, forced himself to look up into Eomund's face, saw the hurt and grief and anger all mingled there. "He only had another year, and he was doing better. He would have never made a great soldier, but he could do his duty. Theoden hated it the first year, too, and," he raised an eyebrow at his little brother, "be honest, so did you." He shrugged. "It is something that has to be done."

"No." Eomund spoke decisively. "It does not. There are plenty of soldiers in Gondor, we do not need to take those who are clearly not."

The older brother shook his head. "No, it is not that simple." He stroked the horse's rough nose and scratched its ears before he spoke further. "We must set the example, E'mun. The people look to us, it is our responsibility to lead the way." He sighed, a deep, painful rush of air, decided not to rehash an old argument. "Please don't go. If you do, it will hurt Mother and you don't want to do that. She needs all of us here." There was a pause, no angry retort from Eomund, and Elboron sensed he was weakening. "We need each other." He looked up into the hard, haughty face of his brother, saw his grudging nod and held the horse as he dismounted.

"I'll stay for Mother," he said, "and for you and the others. Not for him." Elboron nodded and put an arm around his shoulder.

"Thank you." He slid the horse's reins between the fingers of his injured hand and motioned toward the Steward's chambers in the Citadel. "They were going to Theoden's rooms. I'll meet you there." Eomund hesitated, started to turn to go, then turned back and pressed close to Elboron, hugging him tightly and Elboron returned the embrace, saw the tears that had escaped Eomund's eyes. "Go on." Eomund turned and quickly headed for the doorway as Elboron allowed a sigh of relief to escape him.

"You are truly your father's son." The King's voice startled him, he had forgotten he was there, and he shrugged with embarrassment and resignation.

"If he did not stay, not only would it hurt Mother and Father, but one day it would hurt him, knowing he had not been here for the funeral."

Aragorn placed a hand on Elboron's shoulder and smiled at him. "Well done, my lord. Now, you go and get some rest, also." He pulled the reins from Elboron's fingers. "I will take this sad excuse for a mount to the stables." Elboron gave a quick nod of agreement and hurried to catch up with Eomund as Aragorn started toward the stables.

* * *

Eowyn stood and watched as the sun rose above the horizon, flooding the sky with brilliant golden light and catching each dew drop on the grass, turning the ground beneath her into a carpet of diamonds. A chilly wind blew past, just enough to stir her hair and shake out the white banner that the honor guard beside her held before him. It flared in the breeze, licking out in the wind to its full length before it snapped back and fluttered around her. Opposite the white standard stood one of black, its white tree visible only occasionally when the wind strengthened enough to unfurl the entire length of black satin. A few feet away the green of Rohan rode the wind, the slightly smaller flag's white horse seeming to leap forward as the air stirred the cloth.

She was glad her brother had made it for the burial. It had been seven days since Aragorn had arrived in Ithilien with his terrible news, and when she and Faramir had chosen the day they would bury Barahir they had done so in the hope that Eomer and Lothiriel would be able to reach Ithilien in that time. And they had. The royal family of Rohan had arrived last night, tired, dusty, aching with sadness, but in time and behind them had trotted Gimli and some of the dwarfs of the Glittering Caves. Eowyn had wept once more when Eomer had flung himself down from his tall horse and taken the steps two at a time to reach her. Behind him, Lothiriel had kissed Faramir gently, their features so alike they appeared more brother and sister than cousins, before moving onto her nieces and nephews. Now today, they stood in silence beside the rest of Faramir's family, Lothiriel soundlessly weeping as her husband held her close, his mouth pressed into a hard line, their children behind them, chastened and shocked by the death of their cousin.

Eowyn forced herself to look away from the sun, turned her head to see Aragorn staring into the dawn also, his grey eyes dark with sadness. Beside him, Arwen stood tall and silent, always uncomfortable around death, but determined to be there, with Eldarion to her left holding his little sister's hand. Nearby stood Legolas and those woodland elves who had made Ithilien their home for so many years, their fair faces quiet and still in the morning air. They were joined by Gimli and a few others, close friends, trusted companions, each of them there because of their love of Eowyn and Faramir.

Faramir. He stood beside Eowyn holding her hand, his face impassive, his grey eyes bright with unshed tears. His shoulders were straight and his expression betrayed none of the anguish that Eowyn knew he suffered. Only the occasional movement of his throat as he swallowed uneasily showed his misery. Her heart ached and she squeezed his hand, felt the gentle pressure returned.

The slow beat of a solitary drum startled each of them. The pallbearers, members of Barahir's company, lifted the covered slab from the wagon that held it and slowly paced toward the new, hastily constructed burial mound. It had been built on the knoll near the house, where Eowyn had wished. Built quickly and lovingly by the members of Faramir's White Company as a gift to their lord. Built with Legolas' Elvish knowledge and skill and finished only yesterday, made ready to receive the body of Faramir and Eowyn's son. The builders had excavated the ground and shored up the cavern they carved from the hillside with rock and timber, and sod stripped from the ground had been used to roof the small mound so that it appeared to have sprung out of the ground instantly, and yet somehow to have always been there. Above the door that would soon be sealed shut bloomed a small simbalmyne plant, carried from Rohan by Eomer, gently pressed into the soil only moments ago. The pale white flowers nodded gently in the cool morning breeze. Eowyn shut her eyes.

When the drum was directly before her, she opened them again, saw the young men who had served with Barahir each exchange their place with a member of his family, so that he would be carried into the burial chamber by his father, his brothers and his uncle. Eowyn saw Faramir's jaw clench as he moved away from her and shouldered the heavy wooden slab, the barest tremble of his lower lip betraying his distress. Behind him his sons took their places, Elboron's face grave and drawn beneath the bandage, Eomund still as a statue. Theoden was opposite his father and they looked like two sides of the same coin, the same aquiline nose, same dark hair pulled back in a leather clasp, the only difference being that Faramir's was shot with faint streaks of grey. Eowyn paused. Was there more grey than just a week ago? Behind Theoden Sam was openly weeping, the tears falling thick and fast down his cheeks. Eomer took the last place, his face pulled into a familiar scowl, although even that could not disguise his hurt and sorrow.

The men took the last few steps and entered the small door, and Eowyn knew she was supposed to begin the song of mourning, the song that had been sung at the burials in Rohan for generations, but her voice caught in her throat and she could not, could not force the ancient words past her lips. Finally she heard a faint voice behind her, raised softly in the bright morning air. Alasse, gifted with the Rohirric love of music, sang the song her mother could not. A song of sadness and broken hearts and dreams destroyed. As she sang, Estel joined in, her low alto mixing with her sister's soprano in a duet of sweet sorrow, and Eowyn whispered the words, her own voice breaking. Other voices united with them, Aragorn, singing strong and true, Lothiriel and her children, the reedy voice of Nan, standing behind her mistress. Together they sang as Barahir was laid to rest in his tomb and his mother covered her face with her hands and wept.

Afterward they returned to the house and stood about restlessly, as mourners do after the rituals have been completed. The day, which had dawned bright and clear, had turned overcast, the clouds sending down a light drizzle, the grey mist that rose up already hiding Barahir's grave in snatches of fog. Eowyn stood on the veranda and looked through the rain, feeling as if each cold raindrop fell directly into her soul.

"Are you going to be all right?" Eomer's voice was soft and he pressed one large hand against her back.

She nodded, leaned back against his broad chest, felt his grip tighten slightly and looked up into his worried face. "I think so."

Eomer's dark eyes held hers for a moment and he returned her nod. Glancing over to the other side of the veranda where Faramir and Aragorn were talking quietly, he raised his eyebrows. "And Faramir?"

Eowyn hesitated. "I don't know, Eomer. I hope so, but you know how he holds things in." Eomer gave a grunt of agreement and Eowyn looked at him. "It is going to be hard on him, I think. Worse than he imagines."

"And he and Eomund had words?" Eomer saw the surprise on his sister's face. "Elboron told me." He and his eldest nephew had always been close, and Elboron had walked back from the burial ceremony with his uncle and told him what had happened. Eowyn pulled away from his grasp, suddenly defensive.

"Eomund had words. Harsh, vicious words." Her voice caught for a moment as she remembered him at Minas Tirith. "He spoke unfairly. He had no right to accuse his father - "

"Eowyn, Eowyn." Eomer's voice was quiet and he took her hands, halting her words. "You need not defend your husband to me. I know all too well the hard duties of leadership, and of family." He toyed with her fingers. "I merely asked hoping they had had a chance to speak again, work things out."

Eowyn seemed to shrink and she shook her head. "Eomund won't speak to his father, and Faramir says it is best to just let him alone until he is ready." Tears started down her face again and Eomer cursed himself for making her cry.

"But you always know what is best, don't you?" Eomund's angry words floated across the veranda, jerking Eowyn around to see her middle son facing his father and Aragorn, his face taut with anger. "You don't make mistakes, not the exalted Steward, not the Prince of Ithilien. No, if it is what you want, it is what is best for everyone!"

Faramir dropped his eyes, clasped his hands behind him and stared at the veranda floor while Aragorn grasped Eomund in a restraining grasp, fearing he might actually strike his father. He could see the cold rage on Eomund's face and realized he had been listening to their conversation concerning troop movements and possible strengthening of the northernmost defenses. An innocent remark Faramir had made concerning his opinion as to where to place a recently formed company had torn at Eomund's already frayed self control and now he faced his father with all the pent-up emotion of the last few days unleashed.

"They are all young and untried, why not send them to the most dangerous watches of the kingdom?" He spoke savagely, his eyes slitted in his face which he held only inches from Faramir's. "That way you can sift out those who are not going to make good soldiers." Elboron started toward them from across the veranda but Eomund waved him back with a hand. "This is not your business, Bron."

Faramir raised his head and looked at his son, hurt and acceptance warring on his face. He knew how close Barahir and Eomund had been, had watched their relationship grow from the time they had both been small, and he knew how deeply the grief lay in Eomund. Reaching out his hand he grasped his arm. "E'mun," he said softly, "please-"

Eomund jerked his arm away from his father's grasp and shook himself loose from the King. "This is all your fault, Father." His voice trembled with pain and anger. "You KNEW he was not a good soldier, but you insisted. The sons of the Steward must always be soldiers, mustn't they? Must set the example. Why? Because you were? Because you say so? Because it builds up your pride? Bah!" He twisted his head in contempt, looked away, saw his mother's horrified face across the veranda, his uncle's angry frown, the Queen as she watched him from a nearby chair. But he was too far gone in his tirade to stop now and when he turned back to Faramir he resembled no one so much as his grandfather Denethor, his head held high and his eyes leaping with fire. "You always told us you wanted to be a better father than your own. But what kind of a loving father sends his son to his death?" He leaned forward again, hoping his father would give ground but not really surprised when Faramir refused to yield, merely held him steady in his gaze. "Even your father never succeeded in that," he hissed.

"Eomund!" Elboron and Aragorn spoke simultaneously, and the King whirled the younger man around, dug iron hard fingers into his arm. "Enough!" He resisted the urge to shake him like a wayward child, instead merely pushed him toward the door of the house. "Say nothing more you will regret later. Go have something to eat or drink." The King cast a swift look at Faramir, saw the paleness of his face, the muscle jumping in his jaw as he held his silence.

"I will do better than that, Sire," Eomund said. "I will leave you all immediately." With a bow to the King, he turned and stalked through the house, heading for the stables, and Aragorn could hear him calling for one of the housemaids to bring his small pack of personal belongings from his room.

Eowyn started to follow him but Eomer held her back. "Let him go," he growled. "If he does not, I might be tempted to take my whip to him." He glared at the door where Eomund had disappeared, saw Legolas lay a restraining hand on Gimli, knew the dwarf shared his feelings. In the house, Estel and Sam had listened in horror and now stepped quickly out of the way as their elder brother marched past them without a word.

Aragorn watched Eomund disappear and sighed, turned back to Faramir, felt completely inadequate to offer any advice or counsel. Eldarion was only now reaching his young adulthood, while Faramir's sons were grown men. The King of Gondor had no wise words to give, could only put out his hand and take the arm of his friend, try to demonstrate his love and support. Faramir seemed to look past him for a moment and Aragorn saw him give the slightest of shudders. Then he drew himself up straight and looked at the King. "We were discussing troop placement, my lord," he said in a toneless voice.

* * *

To Be Continued….

* * *

**Thanks to: **Raksha for inspiration, Cressida for fact-finding and information, Clairon for suggestions, encouragement, beta'ing and letting me use her nickname for Elboron (Bron), Princess Faz for beta'ing and encouragement, and BleedMyEyes for general comments (mostly "Is there more, yet?")


	2. A Disintegration

**Note**: – This story will be updated once a week, so those of you emailing me with requests to hurry – Quit it! Seriously, thanks for all the very kind reviews, that is part of the fun of writing is reading what everyone thinks.

Now, for those who are unhappy with Faramir requiring military service for his sons. (Den's Angel – you know who you are!) Sorry, read the end of the book - "For though Sauron had passed, the hatreds and evils that he bred had not died, and the King of the West had many enemies to subdue before the White Tree could grow in peace." There was apparently still a lot of fighting after Sauron's fall, it wasn't suddenly all hearts and flowers. As a soldier himself and the Steward of Gondor, I feel certain Faramir would consider at least some service time vital for all the men of Gondor, including his sons. And WHERE do you find Faramir complaining about his dad making him be in the army???? It is quite common in many countries to require a little bit of military service, and Gondor would surely keep a standing army.

**Disclaimers: **The usual (or see chapter 1) Again, thanks to everyone!

* * *

**Chapter 2 - A Disintegration**

* * *

Eowyn awoke suddenly, realized she had put out her hand to touch Faramir beside her and he was gone. Again. His side of the bed was cold, even though the blankets had been pulled up around her carefully, which meant he had been gone for a long while. She stroked his pillow for a brief moment, forcing down the sick swirl in her stomach, gathering her courage to go and search for her husband.

It happened nearly every night, now. In the beginning, it had only been occasionally but as the months passed the times she woke alone in the dark hours of the night grew more and more frequent, until in the last three weeks Eowyn doubted there had been more than two or three times that Faramir had slept the night through in his own bed. He wandered the house restlessly, or sat in his study, or the library, staring into the glowing embers of the fire, until sheer exhaustion forced him back to bed and he would collapse beside her for a few hours of shallow, tortuous sleep before he arose again at dawn.

He was thin. Thinner than Eowyn had ever seen him, the bones of his face and neck jutted out under his pale skin, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that never left him. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, and didn't want to talk about it. Not that Eowyn hadn't tried. She had. On several occasions. But all she could ever get out of him was the assurance that he was fine and his sleeplessness would pass. But the weeks turned to months, and he still arose in the dead of night and wandered the house alone.

It didn't help that over three months had passed without a visit or a letter from Eomund. Three months since he had stalked out of the house in a fury, thrown his few things onto the horse's back and ridden away without a backward glance. The lack of visits was not that unusual, he lived in Pelargir, after all, not just a few miles down the road. The lack of letters was. In a prodigiously letter-writing family, there were always one or two notes in the silver tray in the front hall, opened by the addressee, but left out for all to read. There had been letters from Elboron, now stationed further north, Sam, giving a full account of his time in Minas Tirith, and Theoden, with a mix of news concerning recent library acquisitions and an update on Elabet's condition. From Eomund there had been nothing. Not even to his mother.

The girls felt the tension in the house, especially Estel, who had witnessed the argument between her father and brother, and they both tried in their own way to dispel Faramir's gloom. Alasse cosseted him, bringing his favorite foods, trying to coax him into playing games in the long evenings, offering to read aloud the stories she knew he loved best. He tried; Eowyn could see him deliberately set aside his mood and spend an hour or two with his golden-haired daughter, but as soon as Alasse would leave him the dark cloak of despair would descend on him again. Estel had a different tactic, urging her father to teach her new sword drills, inventing reasons why he should accompany her on rides through the countryside, and even asking once more that he try to tutor her in the ancient Elvish tongues that she found so incomprehensible. Nothing helped. Faramir would rouse himself for an hour or two only to sink back down into silence once Estel had gone and on several occasions Eowyn had found her dark-headed daughter in her room angrily weeping. She had tried to explain to Estel, to both of the girls, that everyone grieved differently, and their father's way was to keep quiet and to himself, but even as she spoke the words sounded weak and hollow.

"But we all miss Bara," said Estel one day when Eowyn found her crying in her room over Faramir's refusal to ride to Osgiliath with her. "He isn't the only one who loved him."

"I know," said Eowyn, stroking the dark hair tenderly as she sat beside her daughter. "But it's different for your father… It's been very hard on him."

"Because of E'mun." Estel's voice was quavery and harsh. "It's his fault, because of what he said, about grandfather."

"Now, now." Eowyn wanted no more accusations among her children. "Let's not worry about whose fault anything is. Let's just try to make things better."

Estel sighed and looked away. "I don't know how, Mother." Eowyn kissed her forehead. "I don't know how, either, Estel."

* * *

Only once had Eowyn managed to break through Faramir's defenses, when they had been sitting before the fire late one cool evening, and she had begun reminiscing about her childhood, the cold nights in Rohan spent gathered around the roaring fire. She had spoken of a vague memory of her father, his fair hair dancing in the firelight, as he sang a child's ditty and dandled her on his knee. She had laughed at the memory, but the laughter had been choked off when she turned and saw Faramir's stricken look.

"Do our children have such memories?" he asked, and the emptiness in his voice tore at her heart.

"Of course, my love," she reassured him, reaching over to cover his hand with her own. "Many of them."

"I don't have many happy memories of my childhood," he said in a quiet voice. "After Mother was gone, Father was always too busy, and as I grew older it only got worse." He stared into the fire. "Once I was past twenty and had my own ideas, my own views, Father could never quite accept it. When I was the age our boys are now…" He sighed and Eowyn saw his hands clench before him, the knuckles standing out whitely. "I suppose it is hard for fathers and sons when they are grown, to get used to the change in their relationship…to learn to see each other as men." Eowyn felt a pang and rose from her chair to move closer and kneel beside him, looked up into his eyes. They were dark and bleak and it was as if she could actually see the pain inside him. She reached up and touched his face and he seemed to start as though he had only just realized she was beside him. Swiftly he had kissed her cheek and risen, saying something about a matter he wanted to discuss with the members of his White Company before he hurriedly left the room.

* * *

Now, in the darkness, Eowyn steeled herself and got out of bed, wrapping her robe around her. She took the small candle beside the bed and used a splinter of wood from the fire in the hearth to set a flame on the wick, then padded down the stairs carefully, the flaring light reaching only a few feet beyond her and dancing weirdly off the walls and banister. Reaching the foot of the staircase, she halted, considering. The last two nights she had found him on the veranda, sitting on the steps and looking up at the stars. Quietly she pulled the front door open and stepped outside. The chill air instantly curled her toes and she gave a little shiver as she peered into the darkness, but the veranda was empty and she returned to the foyer and quietly pushed the door shut.

Turning to her left she knocked softly on the door of Faramir's study. There was no answer but she still turned the latch and opened it, looking inside for a moment to be sure it was empty. It was.

Down the main hall, past the staircase, she headed for the library. It was usually his last refuge, the room where he could find some measure of comfort, and more than once she had found him there asleep in the large chair that stood before the stone hearth, although more often he was just sitting and staring into the fire. She raised her hand to knock when a soft noise from behind the large oaken door stopped her and she leaned forward and listened closely.

The hushed sound of quiet weeping had stayed her hand and now it hovered inches away from the door as she heard the sound of her husband's stifled sobs. Eowyn's blood froze and she couldn't breathe for a few seconds as realization and understanding came to her. The muted cries were barely audible as Faramir's grief fought to find release alone in the night and he tried to control it, and Eowyn pressed a hand to her mouth as the tears sprang up in her own eyes. She rested her head on the doorframe for a moment, frightened and angry with herself. She had known how unhappy he was all these months and the desolate look had been in his eyes for so long that she had nearly forgotten his smile, yet she had told herself it would pass, eventually. But she had not guessed the depth of his sadness, and even as he spent more and more nights roaming the house as she slept, she had never suspected this was how he filled the lonely hours and now her heart swelled with shame and fear. Faramir had spent his entire life keeping his emotions under tight rein. That he was so overwhelmed he sat alone in the dark of night weeping sent a cold chill down Eowyn's spine as she realized she had no idea how to help him deal with his sorrow.

Another soft cry drifted through the heavy wooden door and Eowyn took a deep breath, knew Faramir would be horrified if he found her there, listening. Taking a cautious step backward, she silently retreated down the hall to the foot of the stairs. There she stopped and waited a moment before calling his name softly. "Faramir?" She went to the study and opened the door and quickly closed it, this time letting it thump shut noisily. She called his name again and repeated her charade with the front door, once more allowing the sound to reverberate down the hallway. As she started back toward the library she called out once again and this time as she reached the door it was pulled open and Faramir looked at her, his lean, pale face hidden in the shadows so that she could not see the tears he had hastily wiped away. "Eowyn?"

She placed the candle on a nearby table and reached for him and he hugged her, hiding his face in her hair, she realized, to give him a chance to collect himself. She held him tightly and felt the slightest tremble in him.

"I woke up and you were gone again," she said quietly, her breath warm against his neck and her arms wrapped around his alarmingly slender waist.

"Can't sleep," he replied, as though it were an unusual occurrence, and kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry I woke you. Let me take you back to bed." He turned her toward the stairs and held her close as they slowly climbed the steps and Eowyn let her head rest against him, could feel the damp spots on the front of his sleeping shirt but kept silent.

In the bedroom, after she blew out the candle and they crawled back into bed, she turned onto her side and reached over to slide her arms under and around him and hugged him to her. She could feel the tension in his muscles and she kissed his shoulders and his neck, trying to somehow comfort him. "Faramir," she whispered. "I don't know –"

"Shh." He rolled over to face her and gathered her into his arms. "Don't worry. Go to sleep." He pressed a light kiss on her cheek. "Everything is fine."

But Eowyn knew everything was far from fine, and as she snuggled against him she resolved to find a way to change things in the morning.

* * *

Faramir stared blankly into the darkness and stroked his hand down Eowyn's back, listening to her breathing slow and deepen as she drifted back to sleep. He waited until he felt her body relax softly against him, then kissed her gently on the forehead and slowly extricated himself from her embrace. Silently he slid out of bed, tucking the coverlet around her sleeping form and crept quietly out of the bedroom, back downstairs to the chair that sat before the fire in the library. He resumed the seat he had left less than an hour earlier and once more pulled the book lying on the nearby table into his lap.

"In the year 2984 Third Age, Denethor II, Son of Ecthelion, became Steward of Gondor." Faramir paused. This was all the further he had been able to read the first time, too. His father. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, visualizing the dark hair, the penetrating grey eyes, the brow that had seemed perpetually furrowed in thought as Denethor strove to find a way to protect Gondor. How had he managed, Faramir wondered. How had he been able to find the strength to govern a country while fighting to preserve its existence? How had he faced that black and sullen sky in the east each day? And how had he sent his sons into war? No wonder the news of Boromir's death had broken him, caused him to begin the descent into the madness that destroyed him. The memory of his father's face as he held the two halves of the great Horn of Gondor, soaked and discolored from their time in the Anduin, was suddenly fresh in Faramir's mind. He could remember the paleness of his father's face, the slight swallow, the way he had suddenly looked old and tired and weak.

The thought of his long-dead brother brought fresh tears to his eyes and he rubbed them tiredly. All those years ago he had convinced himself that he knew and accepted the reasons, thought he understood his father's reaction. Boromir had been the eldest, the beloved, the heir. He had died far from home on an errand called forth in a dream and entered into with his father's approval. Faramir had known all this for years and had been certain he knew and forgave his father for his actions. But now he understood in a way he had never wished. Now he knew what it was to have someone arrive only to break your heart with the news they carried. He knew that nothing had ever hurt him as much as the sudden knowledge that had pierced his heart the day Aragorn had arrived in Ithilien. Nothing had prepared him for the dark, empty place in his soul that had once been occupied by his son.

Faramir shuddered slightly. Now his own children knew the pain of loss. Now there was a room in the house that would never see its owner again. Now Eowyn walked each day out to the green mound beyond the house and sat among the simbalmyne. Because of him, Eomund had said. Because in his pride and arrogance he had asked Barahir to do what he knew he could not. Be a soldier. As Faramir had once been.

But Faramir had been a soldier because his father and the war had compelled him, had demanded it of him in a time of death and sacrifice, and he had done it and done it well, even as he had known it was not who he was. There was no war now. No desperate need for Barahir to take up his sword and mold himself into a warrior. Yet, Faramir wondered, did peace excuse one from his duty? Did not all the men of Gondor, including his sons, owe some small part of themselves to keeping their lands safe, protecting their country and their people?

And Bara had not died in war, another part of him argued. He had died because of a runaway horse, not wounds on a battlefield, suffered because of poor fighting skills. True, he had begged to be released last winter, and Faramir, seeing his discontent, had wavered, had spoken with Aragorn, asked Elboron his opinion, considered everything and made his decision. No, he had told Barahir. One more year. Just as every other man in Gondor served when he turned eighteen. No man was excused simply because he did not care for soldiering, and the Steward's sons must set the example, and Bara was improving, receiving good marks from his superiors. His son had nodded, shrugged, smiled his wide smile and agreed to finish out his time. It had not been mentioned again and Bara had held no grudges or ill will, but now Faramir could not help but wonder, if he had let him leave the army would he be alive today? Or would he have been on the dock talking to Elboron anyway? The question haunted him.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes again. There was a dull ache that seemed to live behind them constantly now and a matching one in the small of his back. He closed the book and leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on his knees while his hands held his head. He thought of Barahir, his blue eyes crinkled with laughter, his long, fine hands. Faramir's hands, Eowyn had always said. The hands of an artist or a musician and indeed Barahir had been skilled with both brush and harp. Now they were stilled forever, and Faramir felt his throat constrict again.

He had thought the knife-edged pain of loss would subside after a while, that after a time he would be able to think of his son without the blinding hurt suddenly slicing at him, as had been true with Boromir and his father. But the months passed and the pain never left; if anything it grew worse. And the dreams came, dark and terrible, and Eomund's words echoed in his ears, "Murderer." Faramir gritted his teeth and swallowed back the tears, refused to let them slip from his eyes, and felt the pain in his head increase as the memory rose up before him. Eomund's face with its cold eyes and sneering mouth, so much like his father's, the harsh words pelting him like stones and in the darkness of the library Faramir shuddered again as his son and his father seemed to merge together in his memory to accuse and indict him. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the darkness, unsure whether he spoke to Denethor, Eomund or Barahir. "I'm sorry."

* * *

Aragorn read Eowyn's message once more, feeling suddenly queasy with worry. She detailed the sleepless nights, the lack of appetite, and begged the King for his help in any way that might restore her husband to his family. Silently Aragorn handed the letter to Arwen and she quickly read down the frantic lines. Raising her head she looked at Aragorn. "He did appear to be rather distracted when he was here a few weeks ago," she said quietly. "And he was terribly thin."

"His grief is eating him up," Aragorn said, sitting down in the chair by the window of their private chambers. "That and Eomund's accusations." He stared out the window a moment, watching the city drowsing under the noonday sun. It had been more than three weeks since he had seen Faramir, and his Steward had looked unwell then. Aragorn had been concerned and shortened their meeting, urged him to return to Ithilien and get some rest, but apparently nothing had improved. Now a messenger had arrived only a few moments ago, practically demanding to see the King, saying that his lady had charged him with putting her message into Aragorn's hand with utmost haste. The man waited outside for an answer and Aragorn was unsure he had one. Healing he understood, but healing of the body was always far simpler than healing of the heart, and he knew Faramir's heart had been badly hurt. The awful wounds that Denethor had inflicted, along with those caused by his worshipped and beloved older brother's death, had faded in the long years of peace and contentment with Eowyn, but they were still there, beneath the surface, and now Barahir's death and Eomund's angry words, had ripped the old scars open once again.

"I will go back with the messenger." He made his decision abruptly and stood. "I'm not sure what I can do, but I cannot let things get any worse if I can help it."

Arwen nodded in agreement and put her arms around him. "Do whatever you must; I know you cherish him too much to let it go on." He hugged her tightly, turning over a half-formed idea in his mind, a plan that he would carry out if needed, but one that left him hoping he would think of something else or find it unnecessary when he reached Ithilien.

* * *

A few hours later Aragorn trotted his horse out of the woods and started up the long meadow toward Faramir and Eowyn's house. As they drew nearer, he dismounted and handed the reins to the messenger as he and the two guards who had accompanied the King moved off in the direction of the barracks and he approached the house alone. It was quiet, as if no one was about as he walked up the stone steps to stand before the door. A quiet scrap of conversation drifted around the corner and Aragorn followed it to find Eowyn and her daughters seated at a small table on the far corner of the veranda that overlooked the meeting hall and the ornate herb garden. They stared at him in surprise for a moment, then rose almost simultaneously and came toward him with happy greetings.

Aragorn hugged the girls and gave Eowyn a kiss on the cheek, seeing her thankfulness for his quick arrival in her eyes. She flashed a look at the girls to let him know that her letter was to be kept secret and he gave the slightest nod to show he understood.

"Good evening, my lord," she said, curtsying formally even as she smiled at him in gratitude. "We were just preparing to have dinner. It's so lovely out we decided to have our meal here, rather in the house. May I offer you something to eat?" He accepted and seated himself at the table as the house maids began to serve the meal. As his plate was filled, he looked around curiously.

"Where is the lord of the house?" he asked in an innocent tone.

"He's in the library," said Estel, motioning for the serving girl to double the portion of her favorite potato dish. "He said he was coming, but he won't. He's reading some book and will forget all about us." She suddenly looked up at the King. "Shall I go and get him, Sire?" Leaping to her feet, and overturning her cup in the process, she waited for his order while her sister mopped up the mess and shook her head in exasperation.

Aragorn smiled. She often reminded him of Boromir, brash and noisy, and yet somehow still appealing. "No, no, my lady, sit and eat. I will find him myself." He stood up and went into the house, passing the arched doorway that led to the kitchen and approaching the library door. It was pulled shut but not latched and he knocked gently and when there was no answer, he rapped again, harder.

"Estel, I'm sorry - " Faramir stopped in surprise when he opened the door to find Aragorn standing there. "My lord!"

Aragorn kept his face blank with immense effort. Faramir looked terrible. His face was horribly thin, with pale, waxy skin and sunken eyes, and his clothes hung on his too-lean body. His dark hair was gathered back from his face in an untidy braid and Aragorn thought he could see a slight tremor in the bony hand that grasped the door. Composing himself, he smiled and reached out to clasp Faramir's shoulder, forcing himself not to grimace at the feel of the bones beneath his hand. "My good friend," he said, "How are you?"

Instantly there was a veiled look in Faramir's eyes. "I am well, Sire," he said stiffly. "Is there something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, why?"

"You are here, in Ithilien," Faramir said slowly, his expression swinging between confusion and suspicion. "I thought perhaps…"

"No, no," Aragorn laughed easily and shrugged. "I just came to spend a little time with you and your family. Sometimes I feel like the world is closing in on me in Minas Tirith."

"That can happen here, too." Faramir spoke in a whisper, then seemed to shake himself and stepped out of the library. "I believe Estel said our meal was being served, would you join us?"

"Actually, I already was invited by your wife, but we missed your presence, and I volunteered to bring you to the table." They walked back to the veranda together, Faramir silently keeping his eyes down as Aragorn cast furtive glances at him, his healer's eye measuring the frailty of the man beside him. He did not like what he saw. Faramir was thin, as Eowyn had said, but she had not mentioned the pallor of his face, the dull look in his eyes, the distracted, wooden expression. Aragorn had hoped to be reassured by his visit, instead his worries had just increased tenfold.

They approached the table and were seated and served. Eowyn inquired after Arwen and the children and as they ate they spent the time exchanging news. Faramir remained silent, answering in short words only those comments specifically addressed to him, cutting his meat and moving his food about his plate but eating very little, Aragorn noticed. The girls finished and at an invisible signal from their mother, rose and left the table, bidding the King good day and stopping to kiss their father tenderly as they went into the house. Faramir looked at each of them and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

Eowyn waited only a few minutes before she thought of something pressing to tell the cook in the kitchen and excused herself to follow after the girls, leaving Aragorn and Faramir alone at the table. Faramir sat with his eyes downcast and there was an awkward silence that hurt Aragorn. He had always felt close to Faramir, from that first day in the Houses of Healing, and considered him far more than just his Steward. He was a friend, and to now have the minutes stretch uncomfortably between them was, to him, a sign of just how wrong things were. At last he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

"Faramir." His voice was soft but Faramir flinched slightly and seemed to have to force himself to look up. Aragorn caught a glimpse of the anguish in those grey eyes even as the veil slipped over them once more. In seconds there was nothing, just a flat, waiting look.

"Yes, my lord?"

"How can I help you?"

The blank look never shifted. "Help me, my lord? I don't understand. I don't need help with anything."

Aragorn sighed, leaned back in his chair. "You look terrible."

"I'm sorry, my lord." The words were spoken woodenly.

"Faramir!" Aragorn sat up and reached across the table to place his hand around Faramir's wrist where it lay beside his untouched plate of food, easily encircling the thin arm. "It was not an accusation. I'm worried about you." He kept a gentle hold on his wrist, could feel the tension in his arm, the rapid pulse hammering beneath his sensitive fingers. How long had he been under so much stress? How much longer could he hold up?

Faramir knew what he was doing, pulled his hand away from the King. "Don't worry, Sire. I'm fine." He straightened in his chair and looked at Aragorn, and could see the concern on the King's face and for some reason it angered him. "I will not fail you in my duties."

"Duties?" Aragorn's face curled with astonishment. "Faramir, I'm not worried about your duties! I'm worried about you. You are not well."

"I'm fine," Faramir repeated.

Aragorn shook his head. "No, my friend, you are not. I can see – you've lost weight, I would guess at least twenty pounds. You ate nothing." Aragorn gestured toward the plate before him. "You do not look like you are "fine". He could hear his worry making his voice louder and consciously lowered it. "You look like you are about to collapse."

"I'm sorry." Faramir repeated his earlier apology, his eyes staring blankly past Aragorn, who felt his stomach churning. He had hoped Eowyn was exaggerating in her letter, her concern for her husband magnifying the problem, but it was obvious her fears were justified and he sighed. The plan that he had devised before he rode from Minas Tirith was not going to be accepted easily by his Steward. He had hoped to avoid it, but Faramir's condition made it obvious he would have to intervene. 'Do whatever you must' Arwen had said, and now he must hurt his dear friend even more, even though he believed it to be for his own good.

"I want you to take some time away," he said, and saw the suspicious look return to Faramir's face. "I am sending you to Rivendell-"

"No, Aragorn-" The hurt in Faramir's eyes was like a blade across Aragorn's heart.

"You must go," he said gently, once more reaching for his arm, even as Faramir drew back. "You are not well; you need to go where you can recuperate, somewhere quiet, where you can rest, away from - bad memories." He saw the dejected slump in his friend's shoulders and it was only further proof of Faramir's mental and emotional exhaustion that he would allow his dismay to show so easily. "Please, Faramir," he pleaded. He wanted him to understand and agree, not just obey the King's order.

Faramir shook his head slightly. "But I have duties here, who will see to them?"

Aragorn hesitated, decided there was no way to soften the blow. "I have called Elboron back from the northern frontiers. I sent the message this afternoon, before I left Minas Tirith. He can act in your place while you are gone."

The King could actually see the effect of his words on Faramir. His body jerked slightly and he seemed to suddenly diminish in his chair. "So, you had already decided when you came, then? You do not believe I am capable?"

"Faramir, it is not that-"

"It's not? Why else would you call Elboron back?" The injured expression was suddenly replaced with anger, the defensive anger of a wounded soul struggling to keep some self-respect. "I swear to you, I will not fail in my duties." His voice dropped and he suddenly lunged across the table and grabbed Aragorn's hands, his grip surprisingly strong for one so frail-looking. "I am not my father, to be broken by circumstances, to lose my sense of who I am because of –" He stopped, looked down, swallowed hard. "Please, Aragorn, I am begging you." Aragorn could see his struggle, knew the effort it took for him to plead with his King. "Please do not send me away."

"I must," Aragorn said softly, hating himself for hurting his friend so much.

Faramir released his hold on his hands and stood, suddenly angry again, paced the edge of the veranda. "And if I refuse?"

Aragorn could only stare at him for a moment, speechless with shock. He had not expected this. He and Faramir had had disagreements before, even arguments, but he had always known that he had Faramir's love and support and thought Faramir knew he had his. He had never considered he would not do as he asked. He watched as Faramir moved agitatedly across the veranda and despite his words, Faramir resembled no one so much as his father suddenly and Aragorn felt a vague uneasiness. "You mean," he spoke hesitantly, unable to believe that Faramir, who had never refused him anything, who had always been his strongest supporter, would now turn against him. "You mean you would force me to order you?"

"I mean I will not go," Faramir's face was flushed and his brows were furrowed over angry grey eyes. "Even if you order me."

"Faramir!" Aragorn cried out in surprise and astonishment. "You cannot mean that!"

"I do."

Now the King was on his feet and he faced his Steward, his friend of many years, their faces only inches apart. "But why? Why would you disobey me? When I do what I must out of my love for you?"

"Love?" Faramir's voice was harsh. "Is that what it is? Is it love to send someone away from their home when they don't want to go? Is it love to deny someone their wish for happiness? To force them to do your will? Is that how you show someone you love them, by sending them away?" Aragorn suddenly realized they were no longer speaking of Faramir and tried to calm the situation. He placed a reassuring hand on the thin shoulder. "Faramir-"

"Leave me," Faramir snarled and threw the friendly hand away. Aragorn stepped back, unsure what to do with this man he did not recognize, this unknown, angry stranger. He tried once more, reaching out to grasp Faramir's arm. "Faramir, wait-"

"I said leave!" Faramir turned and unexpectedly pushed Aragorn away from him, knocking him against the table. It was a light, wicker thing and the weight of the King tipped it over, causing Aragorn to lose his balance and fall to the stone floor of the veranda, cups and dishes following, shattering loudly. Faramir stood there, breathing heavily, and glaring down at him, his eyes dark and wild. For a moment Aragorn feared he might actually attack him, he looked so fierce, but he turned abruptly and walked into the house, past Eowyn and the girls, who had been drawn by the sound of raised voices and witnessed the entire incident. They stood with stricken faces, quickly moving out of his way to let him pass and he headed straight for the library, slamming the door shut and turning the lock.

Eowyn hurried to help Aragorn to his feet and he could see the tears coursing down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right, Eowyn." He shook his head and looked at her distraught face. "It is worse than I ever imagined."

"He is not in his right mind," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I am afraid for him." She could hear Estel and Alasse sobbing quietly in the doorway and went to gather the girls in her arms. "Shh, shh." Looking over the heads of her daughters she turned pleading eyes upon the King. "What shall I do?"

Aragorn sighed. "I don't know. I want to send him away, give him some time to recover, but he says he will not go, and I cannot bring myself to force him." He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He needed to talk to someone, to seek counsel, but Faramir had always been his best counselor. With another sigh he faced Eowyn. "I don't know. Let me think about it. I'll be back, in a day or so." He kissed her gently on the cheek and hugged the girls, feeling their sobs as they pressed against him and then headed toward the barracks to collect his men and start back to Minas Tirith, his heart heavy and his thoughts in a jumble.

* * *

They argued that night, after Aragorn had gone and she had convinced him to unlock the door. Argued in whispers and hushed words in the library late at night so that the girls would not hear. Eowyn stood in the hall, weeping, tapping on the door for hours before he had unlocked it and let her in and she had rushed into his arms but he had only stood there. He could not comfort her, he had nothing left to give, and she had stepped away from him, her hurt and sorrow turning into anger as her tears dried on her cheeks.

"Are you mad?" She knew the word would hurt, knew it would bring up the old memories, the whispered stories of Denethor and his final hours that were still told in the city and villages, and used it deliberately. "Why won't you listen to Aragorn?"

He turned away from her, turned and stared at the darkened window rather than face her stricken look. "I am fine. I just need some time alone."

"How much time? You've been locked in this room almost constantly for weeks. You don't eat, you don't sleep." Eowyn's Rohirric blood stained her cheeks as she took his arm and forced him to turn to her. "You are not yourself, Faramir. You must do something, before –" She saw the warning look in his eyes but finished the sentence. "Before you become like your father and let this destroy you."

"I AM NOT MY FATHER!" He shouted the words, thrust her away from him and crossed the library to rest his head on the mantle above the fireplace, wanting only to get away, to be alone. "Please, Eowyn." His voice was back to a choked whisper, hoping she would have pity and leave him, but Eowyn's fear drove her, fear for her husband, for his sanity, for her children and herself, and she followed him across the carpet and stood before him, tall and proud even as her eyes filled with tears.

"Then who are you?" she asked, her voice a harsh whisper. "I don't even know you," she said with a sob. "The man I love would never do this, would never act in such a selfish manner. He would not destroy himself, and his family." She saw him flinch but her fear fueled her anger and she reached out and shook him. "Don't do this!" He pulled away from her and turned back to the fire, and she pressed her hand to her mouth and stared at him, shaking her head. "All the things you ever told me about your father, what he did, how you felt." Her mouth trembled and a single tear rolled down her cheek. "I never thought you would become like him, never."

He moved so quickly he frightened her, grasping her wrist and jerking her toward the door. Wrenching open the heavy oak he glared down at her, his eyes dark and fathomless, before shoving her out into the hallway. "How dare you say that? How dare you? I am not like him. I am not – " He seemed to suddenly realize how tightly he was holding her arm and released her and she looked at him, saw a stranger before her, a man consumed with sorrow and despair, and he saw the look of horror on her face. "Just leave me alone," he said quietly and shut the door, leaning against it as he whispered "I just want to be left alone."

* * *

"My lord? Is that acceptable?"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry, Fenn." Aragorn looked up and made an apologetic smile to his chamberlain, who had apparently been trying to tell him something for quite some time. "I'm distracted today."

"Yes, my lord." The fair-haired man bowed his head. "Then if you agree, I will postpone the chimney work until later in the week." Aragorn nodded absently and Fenn turned to leave. "Fenn? Is the Queen back yet?"

The chamberlain shook his head. "She is still at the dedication ceremony, my lord."

"Very well." Aragorn sat down in his chair. "When she returns, ask her to see me."

"Yes, my lord."

When he was alone again Aragorn let himself relax and slumped down in the chair, throwing his long legs out before him and rubbing his temples. Over a day and a half since he had returned from Ithilien and still he had no idea what to do. On his arrival home he had told Arwen all that had happened and she had shared his dismay and fear for Faramir, but neither of them had been able to think of any way to help him if he did not wish it. The King had been toying all morning with the idea of inventing some diplomatic mission on which to send him, and wanted to ask Arwen her opinion, but she had promised to attend the dedication of a new school and had left their chambers earlier, assuring him she would return by lunch time. He closed his eyes and waited impatiently, half his mind on the meeting he had this afternoon with the nobles of Lossarnach, apparently some discord about an inheritance. A meeting in which he was certain he would sorely miss Faramir's guidance and wisdom.

The sound of the door opening brought him upright in his chair and he looked up with a smile, expecting to see Arwen. Instead, he saw Fenn looking uncertainly at a man beside him, a man who pushed past the chamberlain to enter the King's chambers and Aragorn suddenly realized it was Faramir, his hand clutching at the metal latch of the door. The Steward of Gondor looked like the walking dead, far worse than he had just a day ago when Aragorn had seen him last and the King leaped to his feet and rushed across the room to him, taking him by the arm when he saw him sway unsteadily as he released his hold on the door when Fenn pulled it shut.

"Faramir!" Aragorn guided him gently toward a chair and lowered him into it, resisting the urge to press a hand to his head and check for fever. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"She's gone." Faramir's voice was dull but his eyes shown, glittering in their sockets. He looked up at Aragorn and the King could see he was nearly incoherent with exhaustion.

"Who? Who's gone?" He knelt beside the chair and took Faramir's hands, feeling the icy chill of his fingers, even though it was a hot summer day. He rubbed the cold hands between his and asked again in a quiet voice. "Who's gone?"

"Estel."

"Estel? When? Where?"

Faramir shuddered, pulled his hands from Aragorn's, and dropped his head into his palms. He took a deep breath, struggled to compose himself. "Yesterday. She said she was going riding but she never came home. Alasse found a letter, under her pillow." He pulled the wrinkled parchment from his tunic and handed it to Aragorn, who scanned the blotched words written across the page.

_Alasse-_

_I'm going away. I hate it here now. I miss Bara, and Eomund, and Father frightens me. He's even angry with the King. When I find a place to stay, I'll write. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I love you. Tell Mother I love her. Tell everyone I love them. Take care of Father. _

_Estel_

"She's afraid of me." Faramir's voice was hoarse with pain and weariness. "And now she's gone. Aragorn, I'm losing my children." His words caught in his throat and he fell silent.

"We'll find her," said Aragorn reassuringly. "She can't have gotten too far." He looked at the letter again. "It upset her when she saw us arguing the other day."

"I'm sorry," Faramir said, his head still in his hands. "I was wrong, I was upset, I was...." He stopped and looked at Aragorn with despair. "Striking the King is punishable by death. I put myself in your hands and at your mercy." He lowered his head again.

Aragorn could hardly bear to look at the tortured man before him. "Faramir, stop, stop! I'm not putting you to death, don't be absurd." He reached out and laid a gentle hand along Faramir's face, forcing him to look at him. "Listen to me. I'll find her. I swear it. But you must trust me and do as I ask. You are not well; you must go to Rivendell."

Faramir's eyes were dark and bloodshot and empty and he stared at the King for a long moment. "But, I cannot go now. Estel - "

"I'll find her," Aragorn said again. "I'll have the entire army of Gondor search for her if I must. But you, Faramir, you must go, to Rivendell."

"I cannot." Faramir's words were torn from him. "I have to find her. She is my daughter, Aragorn, my responsibility." He got to his feet slowly, moving as if he were unsure how to use his muscles, and took a few steps toward the door. "It is my fault she is gone; I frightened her, I must find her." He stopped, suddenly unsteady on his feet, and would have fallen had not Aragorn quickly moved to his side and caught him, draping Faramir's arm across his own shoulder and leading him back to the chair to ease him down. He knelt down beside him once more, grasped the cold hands.

"You do not have the strength to search for her, Faramir," he said softly. "You are unwell. You need to rest." Time seemed to pause for a moment and Aragorn could almost see the crushing weight of grief and despair on his friend and he waited, hoping there was enough of Faramir's own good sense still intact in him to realize the truth of the King's words.

"I can rest here." Faramir's head was bowed again, his dark hair obscuring his face, and he spoke in a monotone voice.

"No, you cannot, or you would have already." Aragorn kept his voice gentle, sensing he had broken through the last of Faramir's defenses. "Please, Faramir, go to Rivendell, get some rest, recover your health, and I will find Estel. I swear it." He watched as the words penetrated and his Steward finally realized that his actions and responses in the last few days only proved Aragorn to be correct, and at last Faramir gave a jerky nod of acquiescence.

"I will go," he said faintly, the words wrenched from him.

"Thank you." Aragorn reached out and gave his knee a gentle squeeze; thinking to himself that Faramir had never looked so fragile as at that moment. "I will have preparations made immediately, both for you, and for a search party." He had a sudden thought. "Where is Eowyn?"

Aragorn thought he saw Faramir cringe as he spoke, and his empty eyes were even more desolate as he looked up at the King. "She stayed in Ithilien…We – we quarreled, she is angry with me." Faramir whispered, staring blankly ahead of him. "I – " He suddenly seemed to realize where he was and who he was speaking to and he halted his sentence, lowered his head again. "There should be someone at home, in case Estel comes back," he said tiredly. "I tracked her to Osgiliath. I found her horse, she sold it there, but after that, I couldn't find any trace..." His voice trailed off and he simply sat, his eyes fixed on the stone floor.

Aragorn carefully got to his feet and placed his hand on Faramir's shoulder. "We'll start there, then." The vision of Faramir trudging the streets of Osgiliath in his condition tore at him, while the idea of he and Eowyn arguing, something they rarely did, was unsettling and he knew could only do more damage to Faramir's already precarious emotions, and he gently massaged the tense muscles beneath his hand even as he began to make plans. The door to his chambers opened and Arwen entered, her face instantly full of worry when she saw Faramir. She looked at Aragorn and he shook his head slightly to discourage any questions.

"Faramir." Her voice was low and welcoming. Immediately Faramir struggled up to stand before his Queen.

"My lady." He bowed his head and Aragorn saw the tears fill Arwen's eyes, knew his description of the Steward had not been enough to prepare her. She glided forward and took his hands, kissed his cheek gently. "I'm pleased to see you," she said. Faramir trembled and Aragorn pressed him back down into the chair.

"Sit down," he said softly. Faramir nodded. "Yes, Sire," he said quietly as he sank back into the cushions and Aragorn turned to Arwen. "Stay with him. I have arrangements to make." He left them and strode down the long corridor to his official chambers, barking out orders to guards and others who came running at his summons. Within minutes there was a party being outfitted to travel to Rivendell, and a Battalion of Gondorian soldiers headed for Osgiliath to search for Estel. Summoning a scribe, Aragorn took the parchment and ink himself and wrote a message to Eowyn to let her know where Faramir was, that he would be leaving immediately, and that the King was now leading the search for Estel. After dispatching that message, he took a fresh sheet of parchment and wrote out a terse note, placing it in the hands of one of his swiftest couriers. "This goes to Eomund in Pelargir," he said in a dangerously soft voice. "Bring him back here to me."

* * *

To Be Continued…..

* * *

Oooo, here is where I manage to make everyone mad! For those of you who have already complained that I'm writing Book Faramir (i.e. black hair, grey eyes), not David Wenham, sorry. But I have a feeling that those who love "Bookimir" will be aghast at this chapter, so think of me as an "equal opportunity offender."

Now, for those of you who are going to review this chapter and wail "But that's NOT the way Faramir is!!!" – Um, I know that. The whole point is that people under terrible stress don't act the way they usually do. Everyone has a breaking point, thankfully most of us never reach ours. Faramir has. I have never been one to convince myself that Faramir's nobility is somehow lessened if he has a few problems, like depression. I mean, geez – look at the family – Mom dies of sadness, Dad goes bonkers – the poor man is practically hard-wired for a little breakdown! Besides, you all love him to suffer, you know you do…….


	3. A Deception

**Note**: Some of you have asked about Aragorn's (and my) reasons for sending Faramir to Rivendell, so I thought I'd try to explain myself. In the "_Complete Guide to Middle Earth_" by Robert Foster, it says that in the Fourth Age, Elrond went over the sea but Elladan and Elrohir stayed in Rivendell, and were joined by Celeborn at a later date – after he grew tired of living in Lothlorien alone, since Galadrial had also gone into the West. Apparently there is no record of exactly who all stayed in Rivendell and when it was finally totally deserted. So, for me, at least, it is still up and running 30 years after the War.

I see Aragorn sending Faramir there for a few reasons - first, it's a place HE thinks of as safe, having grown up there, and he's hoping Celeborn ("the Wise") will be able to come up with a plan to help. He also remembers how much Faramir loved visiting before ('member, I sent him and Eowyn there at the end of my last story) and is looking for a place of "happy" memories. Also, he wants to get him somewhere where no one will think to look for him, so he can really have some time to rest. The only other place he might consider sending him, Dol Amroth, is too full of both memories and relatives. So, there is my reasoning, take it or leave it!

I also feel a little guilty because so many of you are already beginning to detest Eomund. Please don't! I don't detest him, I see him as the middle brother – with two older ones that he would whine to and two younger ones he could boss around. He is still learning to be an adult and his own person. Having been blessed/cursed with Denethor's personality (stubbornness and self-assurance can be virtues!!!) he just needs to learn how to temper it a bit. It would have to be a tremendous burden to be the children of Faramir and Eowyn, don't you think? Quite a bit to live up to…Anyway, don't hate the boy too much, he'll get his, don't worry, and he's really not a bad guy, just a little self-centered and anxious to prove he's a grown-up and doesn't have to listen to Mom and Dad.

Again – THANKS for all the nice reviews!

* * *

Chapter 3: A Deception

* * *

"How old are you, boy?" The Rohirric warrior's face was twisted from an old scar, the missing chunk of upper lip on the left leering up into an unamused smile. He leaned back against the tavern wall and pinned his gaze on the sturdy figure before him.

"Eighteen," said the boy, and even through his inebriated haze the man of Rohan could see the blush spread across his fair cheek. He said nothing, kept his eyes on the boy, who shifted his feet uncertainly. "Seventeen?" he offered hopefully, looking up into the mangled face, whose expression never changed. Beside the drunken man another Rohirric soldier laughed out loud at the assertion and the boy flushed even darker, then drew his dark brows together in a frown. "Sixteen, almost, and that is true."

"Sixteen?" With a snort the Rider buried his nose into his cup once more and swallowed a mouthful of ale. When he looked up again, the boy was still waiting, his hand nervously rubbing along his breeches. The Rider shook his head. "Go home, boy."

"I can't, my lord."

The Rohirrim guffawed into his cup and looked at his companions. "You hear that? My Lord, he says. I'm moving up in the world, don't you know." The other Riders seated at the table laughed loudly, clanked their cups together in a toast and bowed mockingly toward him.

Estel flushed again. She had made a mistake! He was obviously an eored leader, judging by the plume of his helmet and the air of command he had. She had watched him from the shadows for quite some time before approaching him and now she had already had made an error. Quickly she pressed on. "I can't, sir." Sir seemed to be at least a reasonable title and he did not correct her this time. "It's – well, it's hard to explain. You see, my brother, he was – he died in the spring, and now my father – well, sir –" To her horror, Estel heard her voice quaver and felt a tear escape from her eye. Angrily she reached up and wiped at it with her palm, inadvertently shoving her short hair away from her face.

Suddenly the man with the scarred face stood up and reached across the table, grabbed her by the chin and turned her head to examine the long bloody scratches and the bruise along her cheek. His mouth grew hard. "Beats you, does he?" He released her with a grunt of disgust.

Estel froze, dropping her gaze to the floor. It was not the lie she had planned to use but it would suffice. She nodded, feeling more than a little guilty in letting these men think her father had harmed her. Then the memory of his argument with the King came to her and she let out a shaky breath and nodded again.

The Riders traded glances, suddenly serious. A man who would beat a boy was contemptible in both Gondor and Rohan, and one of them looked at his captain and shrugged. "Let him come along," he said gruffly, "he can clean our boots." The others voiced their agreement and the youngest, barely more than a boy himself, scooted over on the bench to make room for the newcomer.

"What's your name, boy?" The captain asked.

"Stellan," said Estel as she gingerly took her place on the bench. "My name is Stellan."

* * *

She had made her plans after the King had gone, while her father was still locked in the library, despite her mother's entreaties and Alasse lay crying softly in the bed beside hers. There had been too many nights when she or her sister had cried themselves to sleep lately, too many days spent trying to gauge her father's mood, or in attempts to coax a response of some sort from him and she made her decision as she lay stiff and frightened under the covers, the memory of her father's angry face still before her.

In the morning she had risen early and slipped into Sam's room, pulling a pair of breeches and a tunic from his wardrobe and only hesitating a moment before snatching up his old jerkin, the leather one that he had worn almost constantly before joining the army. She looked for a moment at the boots beside it, but her feet were much too small; her own would have to do and she quickly wrapped everything into a neat bundle. The letter she had written hastily, after Alasse had gone down to breakfast, with several scribbled out mistakes and blotches of ink, and she had carefully slid it under her sister's pillow, hoping it would remain undiscovered until much later in the day.

She stowed the bundle behind the scratched-up cupboard in the back entry of the house, the one that held muddy boots, bits of horse tack, the occasional odd-looking rock found on a stroll about the grounds, and all the other odds and ends that were accumulated by a large family passing in and out. It was less messy than in the past, with all the boys gone, but still untidy enough that no one would be looking behind it any time soon. Then she went to breakfast. Neither her mother nor her father were at the table, instead Alasse sat alone, picking through some fruit as her tea cooled before her untouched. Estel could see the slight swelling around her eyes where she had cried herself to sleep last night. Feeling even more determined in her plan, she grabbed a roll and announced to her sister she was going riding. Alasse nodded sorrowfully and she went to the back entry, collected the bundle and headed for the stables.

She took the black mare, grateful that her grey stallion was turned out in the lower pastures, knowing she would not have had the heart to sell him when she got to Osgiliath no matter how necessary it might be. As it was, she had no trouble finding a buyer for the mare once she arrived in Osgiliath that afternoon. The finely-made animal had sold easily, even if she had to take far less than she was worth in order to find someone willing to pay cash with no questions asked. A girl with older brothers knew a lot, more than she should sometimes, and Estel had taken the mare to a side street near the main docks and in no time had a small sack of coins in her possession, rather than a horse.

Hastily heading for the depot, she purchased a ticket to Dol Amroth, using nearly all her money, and making sure the elderly man behind the counter knew she was from out of town. She asked for directions twice, wanting to make sure he remembered her and he smiled genially as he pointed her toward the ship. "Just turn right, go down the docks to Number 14, sweeting." She returned the smile, thanked him, and walked away, waiting a few minutes before turning left and making her way to a small inn a few streets off of the large square in the center of the city.

She paid for a night's lodging, and ate a small meal in the common room, ignoring the looks from a few young men seated nearby, and that was almost the end of her money, but she wasn't worried. She was young and blessed with an optimistic spirit and had no doubts that her plan would succeed. Once in her room, she set about transforming herself.

The children of Eowyn of Rohan had been raised with stories of their mother's courage and bravery, of how she had ridden to war with the Rohirrim disguised as Dernhelm and slain the witch king, and many nights Estel had sat entranced as her father or uncle had told the tale of that day, drawing embarrassed corrections from her mother in the telling. "It was not quite so glorious," she would say with a shake of her head, "You were not there!" and Estel had never made a secret of her disappointment in being female, when nothing stirred her blood like the sound of horns and the snap of a banner in the wind.

Now she stood before the sliver of mirror she had begged from the innkeeper and, taking a resolute breath, took out her knife and began to cut. Her long black hair fell around her feet as she hacked at it, and she had to keep turning her head to see her reflection in the mirror, but little by little she worked until it was trimmed just below her ears, the ragged edge brushing her neck. She squinted into the mirror and was startled to see her brother Theoden peering out at her, only with a slightly broader face. She had not realized how much they looked alike and grinned with pleasure. She could do this!

Next she pulled off her dress and climbed into Sam's breeches, the material feeling strangely snug as it clung to her legs; then pulled on his tunic and at last shrugged into the jerkin. The mirror was too small to give much of a view of her in entirely, but she felt sure she would not be recognized now as a girl, much less the daughter of the Steward of Gondor.

Hastily rolling her discarded clothes into a ball, she stuffed the rest of her meager belongings back into the leather pack she had filched from the White Company's barracks and looked into the mirror once more. For just a moment her nerve failed her, and she saw her lower lip tremble slightly, but she bit it sharply and took a deep breath. "My name is Stellan," she said quietly, "and I want to join the Riders of Rohan."

Squaring her shoulders and pulling on the pack, she turned and crossed the room to open the small window that looked out over the back of the inn. She was in luck. It was evening, dim and dusky out, and a trellis covered with vines ran along one entire side of the inn. She swung her feet over the window sill and climbed out, lunging for the trellis with both hands. She caught it without difficulty and began climbing down, carefully feeling with her feet for each step. The trellis was built of tough, springy wood, and easily took her weight, until she was near the bottom, where an insect had bored a nest hole into the slat, weakening it. It broke beneath her and she fell the last few feet, scratching her face against the rough stone wall of the inn before she landed with a thump. She blinked back the tears and felt gingerly with her fingers, finding only the scratches; decided she was not badly hurt, and shouldered her pack again. Since both her parents and all of her brothers had always cautioned her against ever going anywhere near Rattail Square whenever they were in Osgiliath, she decided that was exactly the place she would find what she needed. On the way, she casually tossed her balled-up clothes, with her hair trimmings inside, into the river Anduin. Then she went to find some Rohirrim.

The scarred eored leader had caught her eye as he joined his men for a drink outside the small tavern and she had gathered her courage and approached them. Now she sat at their table as the night deepened.

* * *

"He's quick." Feorl's voice held admiration and his companion gave a grunt of agreement.

"He's had good training." Wulffon's scarred face wrinkled into a true smile as he watched the newcomer spar with another Rohirrim. The boy was good, better than he had expected. Feorl looked sideways at his commander. Wulffon was a good leader, and a man with a good heart despite his fearsome appearance. Feorl had known once the bruises on the boy's face had been discovered that he would be coming with them, and in the past few days, as they had made their way back to Rohan, he had watched Wulffon befriend the frightened boy, and had tried to do the same.

He had been partially successful. Stellan was more than happy to talk about horses and sword drills, and had even piped up around the fire one night with a comment when the discussion had been battle tactics, much to the amusement of the other Riders gathered around the blaze. They had laughed at him, but Wulffon had silenced them with a word and looked at the boy keenly. "You know of the Battles of the Fords of Isen?"

Stellan was suddenly quiet, looking down at the ground. "My uncle has spoken of them," he said reluctantly, and soon afterward had disappeared from the circle of men around the fire, hurrying off to tend the horses.

Now as Feorl watched the mock sword fight before him he wondered again about the boy's past. He was obviously well-educated and his manner of speech seemed to point to a noble family. He rode as if he had been born on a horse, easily mastering the large bay gelding that had been allotted to him when they left Osgiliath and although his Gondorian heritage was evident by his dark hair and grey eyes, he had surprised them all the first morning by answering in Rohirric when Wulffon forgot and addressed him in their native tongue. Feorl smiled as Stellan parried his taller opponent's stroke with the sword and turned quickly, managing to bring the tip of his own blade up to the other man's neck and earning a whoop of approval from the watching Riders. Yes, he had come from money and privilege, Feorl was certain. But any questions as to his family, or his origins, caused only a veiled look to come across his eyes and silence.

Wulffon and the others who had been at the tavern that night with him had spoken of the bruised and scratched face, the suspicion of abuse, and the others in the eored had accepted the boy without another word. In only a few days he had become one of them, sharing a small tent with Feorl, waking early to fetch water and build up the fire, offering to attend to any small jobs among them. He seemed eager to please, and yet there was a melancholy about him. There was an odd sense of modesty about him, too, leading him to attend to his needs privately and seeming to be embarrassed by the rougher behavior of some of the other Rohirrim, but Feorl attributed that to his youth and the physical abuse he had suffered, and he tried to give the boy his privacy. Other than that, it was soon as if he had always been part of their eored.

Feorl congratulated him as Stellan returned the sword to its owner and came to sit beside him in the firelight. "Well done, lad."

"Can I have a sword of my own?" Stellan's face was flushed and his eyes were bright with excitement and Feorl laughed. "Surely."

"Really?" The grey eyes glowed, until Feorl continued his sentence.

"When you are older."

"Older? I'm old enough." Instantly dark brows were furrowed and a frown pulled at Stellan's mouth. "I beat him, didn't I?"

"Yes," Feorl agreed. "You did, and quite handily. But Hethorn is not an orc, boy. He fights fair, he doesn't take advantage. He didn't WANT to kill you." He shook his head. "Wait a little longer."

Stellan frowned again. "I had my own sword at home," he murmured and once again Feorl tried to learn more of the boy's past.

"Did you now? Is that where you learned such excellent technique? That is some of the best footwork I've seen in a while, especially by one so young."

"My mother-" Estel stopped, horrified that in her desire to answer Feorl's question and prove her right to a sword she had nearly spoken of her mother's fame and given away her identity. Her own sword had been left behind in Ithilien, of course, the expensive blade inlaid with silver and pearl too easily identifiable to be taken along. Beside her the Rider watched with interest as she clumsily covered her mistake. "My mother didn't like me having it," she said awkwardly.

"So your father taught you, then?" pressed Feorl, raising his eyebrows in surprise when Stellan abruptly stood up and walked away, ducking into the tent they shared. Feorl waited a few moments but when the boy did not reappear he followed, feeling guilty when he found him lying in his bedroll sniffling, his face turned toward the canvas wall.

"Stellan, I'm sorry. I know you don't like to talk about your father." Feorl sat down on his own blanket and pulled off his boots. Stellan ignored him and he sighed as he lay back and wrapped the blanket around him. They lay in silence for a few moments as Feorl tried to think of something to say to break the tension.

"We'll be in Rohan tomorrow," he said, mostly just to say something. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll see the King."

The reaction was not what he had expected. Stellan stiffened and rolled over to face him with wide, fearful eyes. "Do you think so?"

Feorl gave a small, puzzled laugh. "No, not really. He doesn't usually inspect all the eoreds personally, maybe once a year or so." The worried look eased a bit and Feorl was curious. "Don't you want to see the King of Rohan? He is the best horseman in all of Middle Earth, and few men can match him with a blade."

Stellan gave a slight shake of his head. "I've heard that, but I have also heard he has a fierce temper, and does not suffer fools." The grey eyes shifted and Stellan bit his lip nervously. "He might be angry that you let me come with you."

Feorl laughed again. "You have heard true, lad. His temper is legendary, and I would not want to be on the receiving end of it! But he would not be angry; we would certainly not be the first eored to bring along some homeless waif." He settled down in his blanket and smiled at the boy. "I wouldn't worry. Chances are you won't even see him, and we won't stay long before we're out on patrol again."

"I hope so." Stellan didn't sound reassured.

Estel's fears proved groundless. Just as Feorl had said, their eored clattered into Edoras with little ceremony, spent two days being refitted, and clattered out again without any appearance by Eomer, who surely would have recognized the sturdy figure in her brother's clothes. Less than a day after Wulffon's eored departed, a messenger arrived from Gondor with news of the disappearance of the Steward's daughter, and all those eorlingas in Edoras were put on alert. Wulffon's company, however, rode north in blissful ignorance of the fugitive they harbored.

* * *

"You understand this does NOT mean you are a full-fledged Rider?" Feorl tried to make his voice stern as he addressed the excited boy before him. Stellan nodded forcefully, his grey eyes dancing with excitement as he reached out his hand. Feorl snatched the sword back again. "You are still expected to build up the fire in the morning and make me my breakfast, and polish my armor, you know."

"Yes, yes," Stellan made a face and grinned, knowing Feorl was merely drawing out the moment as long as possible. "Fire, breakfast, polish, I know."

"Hmm." Feorl slowly handed the sword over, smiling as Stellan ran happy hands down the blade. "It is only because I know you can handle it, and because we are going to be in dangerous territory." He took Stellan's arm, his face suddenly serious. "I mean it, Stellan, we are near Moria, and since the Elves have deserted Lorien, the orcs can be bold. Be wary."

Estel looked into his face and nodded soberly, feeling the touch of his hand on her forearm cause a flush across her cheeks. She smiled, realized for the first time he was not really much older than she was, and quite handsome. His hair was dark blond rather than the pale gold of so many Rohirrim, while his brown eyes were a rarity among the usual blues and greens of the Northmen. Family stories hinted at some Haradric blood somewhere in the past, but whatever the reason, Feorl had a different look than many of his companions and Estel stared at him, suddenly noticing it. He looked at her, saw her eyes on him, her smile, and wrinkled his brow in bewilderment. "What?"

Estel came back to the present with a rush. "Nothing, I just – nothing." She gripped the sword harder and gave it an experimental swing, trying to focus on something other than the tingling on her arm where Feorl had touched her. "It is a good blade." Nothing like that she had left behind, of course, but a good, sturdy weapon that would take an orc's head from its shoulders well enough. She looked up at Feorl shyly. "Thank you."

The Rider smiled and reached over to tousle the dark hair. "Just stay safe, all right?" She nodded.

Wulffon's eored patrolled beyond Rohan's northern border for the next two weeks, Eomer-King having agreed to keep watch over the area for King Elessar of Gondor, but they found scant evidence of any orcs other than one small, abandoned campsite. Estel voiced her displeasure over their lack of enemies to Feorl one night as they ate. "This is boring. The ways things are going, I'll never get to kill an orc."

Feorl laughed as he took a drink from his cup. "Don't be too anxious. You'll get your chance." He looked at the boy affectionately. In the last few weeks he had found Stellan to be a pleasant companion. Intelligent, good-natured, a natural soldier with a boisterous sense of humor. "You'll make a fine Rider, one day," he said suddenly, surprised when Stellan's face fell. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Stellan stared into the fire and chewed his lip. "I miss-" He stopped and Feorl saw the grey eyes brighten as tears filled them. He waited, wondering if the boy was going to speak of his home and past, but in a moment Stellan swallowed hard and brushed his hand across his eyes. "Never mind," he said, forcing a smile. "Thank you for saying that. But I cannot be a Rider until I kill an orc. I will, before we go back to Edoras," he said. "I will." The young face in the firelight was determined and Feorl smiled and patted his back kindly. "I believe you."

* * *

* * *

Celeborn stood on the large porch of the Last Homely House and studied the quiet figure seated on the stone bench in the garden below him.

"How long since you left Minas Tirith?" he asked, his voice quiet and steady.

"Nearly three weeks," came Legolas's soft reply beside him. "Aragorn said to take it slow, and we followed the Old South Road, going east, rather than straight north. He didn't want to chance our meeting any of the orcs that live in the mountains."

"You stopped nowhere on the way, not even Edoras?" Celeborn's voice held no curiosity and Legolas knew he was merely thinking aloud.

"You have spoken with him, my lord, can you see him in Edoras?" Legolas' blue eyes were hard.

The Elf Lord pressed his lips together, called up the image of the guarded, brittle man he had welcomed to Rivendell earlier today and tried to imagine him seated in the loud, rowdy hall of Meduseld surrounded by Rohirrim. He grimaced. "No, no, you were wise to avoid it." He turned back to the chair he had vacated and sat down again, still keeping his eyes on the man in the garden. "Has he improved at all since you departed the city?"

Legolas took a chair beside him and considered, then reluctantly shook his head. "Not really. He is sleeping a little longer at night, but only because the journey has been tiring, I think."

"How long?"

Blond brows drew together as the Elvish prince thought. "Three, perhaps four hours a night. No more."

"Does he eat?"

"Barely enough to sustain him, and that only if I remind and encourage him." Celeborn could hear the sadness in Legolas's voice and looked over to find him giving the older Elf a searching look. "Can you help him?"

Celeborn steepled his fingers before him and let out a gusty breath. "My knowledge of healing is not so advanced as others. I lack Lord Elrond's skill, as you well know. And restoring a wounded spirit is a delicate matter. I feel that Lord Faramir's healing is more dependent on himself than anything I can do." He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a finger along his mouth. "Tell me again, from the beginning."

So Legolas told once more of Barahir's death and the funeral, of cruel, hard words spoken in anger and grief from another beloved son, of the gradual loss of health and uncharacteristic bursts of temper, and at last, near collapse upon Estel's disappearance. Celeborn listened carefully, as he had the first time Legolas had told the story, his eyes never leaving Faramir's still figure below him. There was a long silence when Legolas finished.

At last the Elf Lord stood up and moved to the edge of the balcony once more. "Until the girl is found, I fear little will change," he said. He turned to Legolas. "You say there are search parties looking for her?"

Legolas made a noise of annoyance. "The entire army of Gondor is looking for her. And I am sure Aragorn has sent word to Edoras, so Eomer-King will also be searching." He came to stand beside Celeborn. "I, myself carry messages for Elrohir and Elladan. We will be leaving shortly to search also."

Celeborn gestured toward Faramir. "Does he know you are leaving?" Legolas nodded. "What did he say when you told him?"

"He says very little, my lord." Legolas folded his arms and his face was sorrowful. "It is as if he is lost somewhere deep inside himself."

"An apt description, I think." said Celeborn. "He is lost. That is why I think there is little I can do, except try to help him find his own way back." His eyes rested on Faramir and then he turned to Legolas. "Tell Aragorn I will do my best, but..."

Legolas shook his head. "He asks no more than you are able to give. A quiet place of rest is a good beginning, and as you say, much depends on Faramir himself." He bowed slightly toward the Elf Lord. "I bid you farewell, my lord." Celeborn returned the bow but then paused and looked at Legolas attentively.

"Has anyone informed the hobbits of the Shire…about the girl?" He raised an eyebrow at Legolas, who immediately understood the unspoken portion of the question. The residents of the Shire had not been notified, either of Estel's disappearance or, perhaps of more interest to specific inhabitants of that fertile land, Faramir's ill health.

"No, my lord."

Celeborn clasped his hands in front of him and gazed down into the garden. "I would think they would wish to be informed of such news, I believe all of them to be quite fond of the Steward and his family, and some extremely so." Legolas's eyes widened as he grasped the meaning of Celeborn's words. He was called "Celeborn the Wise" by many, and Legolas knew that his strength lay not so much in always knowing or understanding a particular thing, but in knowing who DID. He realized that the Elf Lord was suggesting it would be wise to inform at least some of those hobbits who knew Faramir, and Legolas considered the idea for a moment, his thoughts soon fixing on Peregrin Took; Pippin. Always hungry, always talking. Pippin, who could be counted on to always look on the bright side of things, to give a hug when it was needed, even if it wasn't wanted, to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and still have it turn out all right.

Legolas found he was smiling and he gave Celeborn a little grin. He would take a short detour to the Shire when he left Rivendell. Perhaps the cheerful chatter of the Halfling could pierce Faramir's bleak mood. He bowed once more and left the balcony to descend the steps turning the thought over in his mind. He would not mention it to Faramir; there was always the chance Pippin could not come, and he knew Faramir was already uncomfortable and would not want anyone making any more special arrangements for him. He felt he was a burden to others as it was. Crossing the grassy lawn Legolas approached Faramir at the stone bench, the man's bent shoulders and lowered head wrenching at his heart.

"My lord?" He spoke quietly as he approached but there was no response, so he laid a gentle hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Faramir?" He winced regretfully as Faramir jumped up in surprise. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to startle you."

"No matter." Faramir's voice was low and he sank back down onto the bench and stared at the ground beneath him. Legolas sat down beside him and looked at the drawn face, the thin hands clasped before him and felt a pang of distress. He had tried mightily as they traveled to get Faramir to eat, to speak, to do anything other than stare fixedly at some unknown spot before him, but had failed most of the time. He had hoped that being on the road might make a difference, but nothing had changed and now that he had seen him safely to Rivendell he must join the search for Estel, and leave Faramir behind to struggle with his inner demons. He hated doing it.

"I'm leaving, with Elrohir and Elladan," he said. There was no answer other than a brief nod and Legolas again felt sadness at Faramir's distance. Remembering the many pleasant evenings he had spent on the veranda in Ithilien talking with Faramir, his heart felt a sudden ache and although he was not the kind to physically touch another often, and knew Faramir was the same, he reached over and tentatively took hold of Faramir's arm. "I will see you again soon, in Ithilien," he said quietly, "after all of this has passed."

"After?" Faramir repeated the word in a dull voice and gave him a mystified look and Legolas had the sudden understanding that it now took most of Faramir's energy just to make it through each day, leaving none to look ahead to a time when his sorrow and worry would be in the past. He squeezed his arm and nodded.

"After, Faramir. One day you will find you have passed through this trial."

Faramir merely gave him another vague nod and returned to staring at the ground below them. With a sigh Legolas rose and left him.

After. The word echoed in Faramir's head. Aragorn had said something similar when he had left Minas Tirith. Once he had agreed to go, Faramir had said nothing more, merely sitting quietly as Arwen made sure things were packed and preparations made while Aragorn sent for Legolas. Only he would make the trip with Faramir; Aragorn saw no reason to embarrass his friend by sending him out with a large party of guards. Times were relatively peaceful and Legolas should be all the protection they needed if they kept to the safer routes. When the Elf had arrived from Ithilien and the horses were ready, Aragorn had coaxed Faramir to his feet and embraced him. He held him close, and Faramir had let his head rest heavily against the King's shoulder for just a moment, feeling the solid strength there.

"This will pass, Faramir," Aragorn had said quietly into his ear. "I know it does not seem possible, but one day you will find yourself on the other side of this dark time, just as you have all the others you have faced." He had stroked the dark hair gently and Faramir had felt the awful pressure rise up in his chest and abruptly pulled away, fearful he would lose control and begin to weep before his King. Aragorn had allowed him to step back, but had kept a tight grip on his hands and looked into his face. "You told me at your home that you were not your father," he said, his eyes locked onto Faramir's own, seeing the unshed tears in the wounded depths. "You said you would not lose yourself. I know this to be true." He raised his hand and laid it alongside Faramir's face. "I know who you are, just as you do yourself, deep inside." He hugged Faramir again even though he could feel the tension in him and his Steward stood stiffly, not returning the gesture. "Rest, my dear friend, and come back to us whole."

Remembering the exchange now Faramir nodded and spoke faintly aloud "Yes, my lord," just as he had in Minas Tirith. From his place on the balcony Celeborn saw him and sighed thoughtfully.

The Elf left Faramir to himself as afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened across the garden, and still Faramir sat lost in his own thoughts, scarcely noticing the passage of time. When at last the sun began to creep below the trees Celeborn walked down the steps and approached his guest. "Lord Faramir?" He spoke again and waited patiently until Faramir turned to him with a blank expression. "May I show you to the room we have ready for you?" Wordlessly Faramir rose to his feet and followed his host, who slowed his steps so that they were walking side by side down the ornately decorated hallway. "I thought you would prefer being a bit removed from the rest of the house," Celeborn said as they walked. "Our sleeping habits here are rather unsettled and no one wishes to disturb you."

Faramir gave him a suspicious look to see if the Elf was mocking him but the bland look did not waver as Celeborn continued. "It is not a large room, but it is private, and looks out onto the woods. I hope you will find it comfortable." He finally stopped before a door made of pale blond wood, covered with carved leaves and flowers. Pushing the door open he gestured for Faramir to enter, stepping through the door behind him.

The room was quite spacious, despite Celeborn's earlier statement, and airy, with one great window and two smaller ones that faced north and the last bright streaks of afternoon sun flamed red through one corner of the glass. It contained a large bed, two padded couches, a clothes closet made of carved and painted wood, a round table and several chairs scattered about. On the paneled walls hung huge swatches of cloth dyed in the pale earthen colors the Elves of Imladris favored, pearl, tan and palest blue and they softened the room and made it feel warm and welcoming. A fire was laid and ready in the hearth should the need arise, but it was still warm enough outside that the door leading to the small balcony off to the side of the room was open to admit the evening breeze. Faramir's things were neatly stacked on the table and the window seat of the larger window. Celeborn waited to see if there would be any reaction but Faramir merely stood motionless, seeming to not even notice the surroundings.

"I will take my leave, then," he said, expecting no reply and receiving none. He turned to go, stopping at the door. "We all have our evening meal together each day at dusk," he informed Faramir, still standing silently in the center of the room. "As I am sure you remember. You'll hear the bell. You are welcome to join us, but should you rather not please feel free to take your meals here. Just let Lathelinor know." He waved toward the hallway they had just come through. "She has black hair, you will see her about. If you need anything, tell her, she is in charge of this wing of the house." Still no answer from the quiet man before him, and he turned to go, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Thank you." Faramir's words were barely audible even to the keen Elvish ears and Celeborn halted, fixing his eyes on the Man until Faramir raised his head to look at him. The pain and sadness in his eyes struck the Elf as more than any Man could bear and he had no difficulty believing that Faramir's misery was destroying him from the inside. He searched for something reassuring to say, something that might give some hope to a broken soul, but nothing came. His wife was the one with that gift, not he.

"My Lord Faramir." When he finally spoke, Celeborn kept his voice low and gentle, as it seemed possible even loudly spoken words might somehow harm the fragile figure before him. "You are more than welcome here in Imladris." Faramir nodded his head as he dropped his eyes once more to the floor and Celeborn left him with no further comment.

The evening light dimmed and the room was nearly dark before Faramir moved slowly across the floor and out onto the balcony. It overlooked the woods and tall, stately trees grew close, throwing their shadows across the balcony floor. A pair of low, cushioned chairs were there facing the trees, and he sat down and stared up into the sky at the first faint glimmers as the stars began to shine. A bell could be heard ringing faintly but he did not seem to notice it. As the trees disappeared into darkness and the starlight began to glow brighter Faramir closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

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To Be Continued….

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Once again – thanks for Clairon and Princess Faz for encouragement, and all the great feedback from everyone.


	4. A Demand

**Note**: Well, this chapter didn't take as long as I thought – so you all get two in a week! I thought I'd better get moving with Eomund, since several of you are wishing him severely punished for his behavior towards his father. So, here we go – don't worry – it will get worse for him before it gets better…

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**Chapter 4 – A Demand**

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Eomund looked up at the great white keel of stone that stood above him and smiled. It was good to be home. He loved the green fields of Ithilien, of course, and now that he made his home there, the squalid busy-ness of Pelargir pleased him, but nothing ever came close to making his heart soar like the blinding white walls of Minas Tirith. This morning the Tower of Ecthelion pierced the sky like a spike, the first dim rays of sunlight washing across in pale rosy-pink as it crept from behind the eastern mountains

He rode through the quiet streets, his horse's hooves echoing on the white stone beneath them as he made his way up through the seven levels of the city. A few people were awake with the dawn, but most still slept or if awake were not yet ready to face the day. Eomund had left Osgiliath last night, as soon as his ship had docked, even though he knew he would have to spend the night on the Pelennor. But the King's message had said "with all possible haste," so he had departed the city, ridden until the darkness had finally been too much, then taken only a few hours sleep, wrapped in his blanket, before saddling the horse again and heading for the city before dawn broke. His happiness over the sunrise helped dispel the foul mood caused by the necessity of sleeping out in the open and having to rent another poor horse from that crooked liveryman in Osgiliath. Eomund liked neither sleeping out nor horses, and his three years in the army had done nothing to change his mind. He had been more than ready to resign his commission at the end of his tour of duty when the King's offer of a position in the fledgling Royal Navy had convinced him otherwise. Now he loved every minute he spent with the small fleet in Pelargir and had the added satisfaction of knowing he was helping Gondor stay safe and strong and that the King trusted and depended on him.

"With all possible haste." The King's message had been cryptic and slightly ominous and Eomund felt a twinge of worry. The courier who had handed him the message had been unable to offer any further information, only that he was accompany Eomund back to Minas Tirith and even now he rode in silence beside him. Eomund let his mind return to seeking the reason he had been called back. He had gone over all his dispatches and reports in his mind as he traveled, trying to think of any omissions or errors, but nothing had been apparent, even to his analytical mind. As he approached the Citadel he took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for a meeting with the King. And his father. It was sure to be uncomfortable.

Eomund's anger had cooled in the months since Barahir's funeral, and a part of him knew he had hurt his father deeply. It had been a shot in the dark, his harsh words of accusation and had had more of an effect than he had ever imagined. Eomund knew little about the relationship between his father and grandfather. Nothing much was ever said at home, and even when he grew older and began asking questions Faramir would usually give him short answers that satisfied none of his curiosity and his mother would only sigh and shake her head. "They did not get along, I have been told," was all she would say.

It was not until his eighteenth year, when he joined the army and was assigned to his platoon that he began to hear the whispers, the hushed remarks that were quickly smothered as he approached. His Sergeant, a gruff, loud-voiced man who constantly and affectionately cursed his charges, would cuff the whisperers into silence and urge Eomund to take no mind of the rumors and gossip of lesser folk, which only increased his desire to hear more.

He finally got the whole story out of another new man, a raw-boned recruit newly arrived from a small village on the Pelennor, who did not recognize the Steward's son and happily spilled the entire sordid tale of his grandfather's last hours to a horrified Eomund one night as they shared picket duty, embellishing the tale with several falsehoods although he did not know them to be such.

Eomund had gone into the bushes afterward and vomited, feeling sick and unsteady even as he returned to his post and his thoughts had worried and picked at the ghastly information for days afterward. He had sought out others who were more than willing to add their own details, each more alarming than the last, until Eomund was obsessed with finding out which, if any, of the numerous versions of Denethor's last day was true.

By the time he had been given his first leave to visit home he had been ready to approach his father, find out the truth, and had mentioned as much to Elboron, who looked at him with horror. "No, E'mun," he said in a firm voice as they stood in the stable unsaddling their horses. He had ridden home with his younger brother, having asked that their leave time be together and his green eyes looked at Eomund worriedly. "Leave it alone. It hurts him to speak of it."

"But have you heard – "

"I've heard. And you'll hear worse, believe me." Elboron picked up a brush and began currying his horse's back distractedly.

"Is it true?" Eomund stopped brushing his own horse, waited for his older brother to reassure him the terrible accounts were nothing but vicious rumors, but the silence stretched out, broken only by the soft sound of bristles moving through horsehair. "Bron? Is it true?" He was surprised to see Elboron's face grow pale as he brushed the horse vigorously.

"Much of it, so far as I can tell," he said in an unsteady voice. He looked at Eomund. "I was like you, E'mun. I heard the stories my first year. I made the mistake of asking." His mouth thinned and he ran the brush harder across the sweaty back of the horse. "It hurt him, I could see it in his eyes." Eomund believed him, knew his brother had inherited his father's ability to easily know another's thoughts, and he stood still, waiting for Elboron to continue.

"Well, what did he say?"

Elboron kept grooming the horse and the minutes passed, and at last he stopped, twisted his fingers through the coarse hair of the horse's mane and sighed.

"He said he did not remember much, that he had been wounded, and the time between the fighting on the Pelennor and when he woke up in the Houses of Healing was hazy. He said he and grandfather were not close and he always regretted that. He said he would rather not speak of it." Elboron stared at the horsehair as he wrapped and unwrapped it around his fingers, remembering the look on his father's face when he had spoken, the way his pulse had been suddenly visible in his neck, the quickening of his breathing, the odd look of wary sorrow in his eyes and he looked at Eomund. "I never mentioned it again. I asked Mother and Uncle, even the King, they told me a little, not much. I got most of what I know to be true from Beregond."

"Beregond? The old Captain of the White Company?"

Elboron nodded and took his horse by the halter, led it into the stall, slid the door shut behind it before he turned to Eomund. "He was there in the city, the day of the Battle on the Pelennor, and he helped save Father's life…from grandfather." He watched Eomund's blue eyes widen and took him by the arm. "I'll tell you what he told me, just as I told Theoden when he came home the first time after he joined the army. Just as I suppose I'll have to tell Bara and Sam one day. But," his eyes held Eomund's, drilling into him intensely. "Don't ask Father. Promise me." Such serious words had subdued Eomund, who had readily agreed and he followed Elboron back to the other horse and listened in growing shock and outrage as Elboron told what he knew in the quiet confines of the stable, the horse stamping contentedly beneath the brothers hands as he talked. When he finished Elboron looked at his little brother over the horse's tall back. "I think that is why he has always tried so hard with all of us," he said quietly. "Always tried to have time, to make sure he was there for all the important things; I think it is why he makes sure he tells us he loves us."

Eomund, who had always been slightly annoyed and embarrassed by his father's affection, nodded, and when Elboron moved past the horse to put his hand on his shoulder and give him a rough hug, he had returned it awkwardly.

"Don't listen to any of the stories, E'mun," Elboron told him. "Most of them are cruel, and untrue. The true ones," he heaved a sigh. "There is nothing you can do about it, and it hurts Father. Let it go."

Now, riding through the empty streets Eomund thought again of his last visit, the vicious and spiteful words he had spoken to his father. He regretted them, knew they had been unfair, undeserved and deeply wounding. He had not expected the site of the body beneath the white silk to hurt him so much and had lashed out in anger and sorrow even as he knew Bara's death had nothing to do with his army duties. But the anger was comforting, reassuring, convincing him that someone was to blame, that his little brother could not be gone just by chance, and so he had nurtured and cultivated it in the days that followed, reminding himself each time he looked at his father that there was the man responsible for Bara being gone, and silencing the small voice of reason within him.

In Ithilien, at the burial, he had carried his brother's body into the tomb, and left a piece of his heart there with him when the door was closed, and it was not possible that someone was not at fault, that someone could not be punished for his loss, and when he had at last found the opportunity to release some of the grief and anger, he had taken a chance, suspecting that invoking his grandfather's memory would hurt his father, not caring at that moment and had been oddly pleased at the slight jerk his father gave and the way the color had gone from his face when he had spoken of that long ago day.

The twisted pleasure had lasted no longer than it took for him to gallop away on his horse and even as he rode toward Osgiliath to find a ship bound for Pelargir he was sorry for his outburst and briefly considered turning back. But his vanity was strong and he did not, and the months had passed. Even after the shock had worn off and his grief been smoothed over with time's passing, even then he had not been able to force himself to write, or visit. Pride, his mother would call it, and make a rude remark about the stubbornness of the Hurin line, and she would be right. Eomund knew his father, with infinite patience, would not push him, would wait for him to make the first move and even though he knew it was childish he had not been ready to do that.

The King's summons had solved the dilemma. He had been called to Minas Tirith and since his father was always involved in any meetings concerning the military, Eomund was certain he would be there for this one. It would be awkward in the beginning, but each of them would be forced to speak to one another during the meeting and when it was over they could move on to personal matters and Eomund would be spared making his apology. He didn't want to apologize, for that matter. He still believed his father had been wrong to force Barahir into the army but that difference of opinion would probably never be resolved, he realized. And deep down he knew Bara's death had been nothing but a tragic accident, and that by refusing to let him leave the army, his father had only done, as always, what he believed to be best for Gondor. Eomund wondered for a moment if he was jealous, envious of the land that held his father's first allegiance. He sighed and pulled the horse to a stop, the Citadel before him.

With a grunt he slid down from the horse's back and unbuckled the leather satchel behind his saddle that held any records he could think the King might wish to see. Dismissing the courier he approached the great bronze doors but to his surprise the two guards there, resplendent in their black and silver uniforms and winged helmets, crashed their spears together and denied him entrance.

"I have been called by the King," he protested, stepping forward. "Let me pass."

The courier, who had not budged following Eomund's preemptory dismissal, now approached and bowed his head fractionally. "My lord, I have been instructed to have you wait here." He gestured toward the stone bench that sat beneath the White Tree. "I will return shortly," he said and walked away, leaving Eomund standing by the bench in confusion. "With all possible haste," he muttered. "With all possible haste, to wait?" He shook his head slightly and sat down, looking up into the pale branches of the tree. It had been there all his life and he had sat beneath its branches a thousand times. He had heard his father tell of the joy in the city when the King had brought the small sapling down from the mountainside and had the old tree pulled up and planted the young one in its place. With a faint smile he reached down toward the bottom of the trunk and felt carefully, his fingers soon finding the initials carved into the root. "B" and "E". There they were, still in the smooth bark of the tree and his smile grew into a grin.

It had been a dare. He had urged Barahir to try out his new birthday gift, taunting that the shiny knife was not that sharp, not like his older brother's. Bara had been furious, and to prove the knife was every bit as lethal as Eomund's, he had quickly incised the letters into the wood, the razored edge marking the tree easily. Afterward they had stood horrified, appalled at their recklessness, and Bara had cried, quieting only when Eomund had sworn if the carving were ever discovered he would take the blame, and then Bara had looked up at his older brother with tear-filled blue eyes. "But E'mun," he said quietly. "That would be a lie."

Eomund's grin faded and he felt the familiar ache. They had been eight and eleven that summer, and inseparable. His fingers brushed against the healed scars on the tree again. No one had ever mentioned them. Now only he knew they were there.

"My lord?"

Eomund jerked around, caught in his reverie, to find the courier had reappeared. He quickly rose and followed him past the now welcoming guards at the entrance and through the enormous doors. The courier bowed once more and then left Eomund in the throne room. Inside, the majesty of the king's hall overwhelmed him for a moment, as it always did. The massive windows, the tall statues of past kings, the shining marble floor; Eomund always felt the glory of Gondor was most tangible in that huge, ornate room. He started across the floor, looking to the far end and his earlier twinge of worry suddenly increased. The King, who would usually be standing on the first, lowest step of the dais ready to greet him with a smile, was instead seated on the great carved throne. On his head was the winged crown, and across his knees lay the scepter of Annuminas, while the long scabbard that held the legendary sword Anduril was buckled about his hips. His face was cold and grave and Eomund felt a sudden rush of fear. This was no ordinary meeting. As he forced his feet to carry him across the polished floor he shifted his gaze to the Steward's chair at the foot of the platform, hoping his father would be able to give him some clue as to what the meeting was about, and his steps faltered.

His father was not seated in the Steward's chair. In his place, grasping the white rod of the Steward's office and watching him through inscrutable green eyes was his brother Elboron. Eomund felt his heart move up into his throat as something close to panic suddenly blossomed inside him and he swallowed hard as he approached them, the last few feet seeming to take hours to cover, and swiftly dropped down on one knee before the King. His heart was thundering in his ears as he bowed his head. "Sire," he said, his voice the merest whisper.

A long moment passed as he knelt there in silence and the questions raced wildly through his head and all thoughts about his navy paperwork disappeared as he tried to find an explanation for the King's formal reception, his father's absence, and Elboron's presence in the Steward's chair. The minutes passed but he dared not look up until bidden to do so, so Eomund waited, his knee beginning to ache where it pressed into the marble beneath him. At last the King spoke.

"Lord Eomund, son of Faramir." Eomund raised his head and started to stand, suddenly realized he had not been instructed to rise and sank back down onto his knee as he looked up into the King's face.

The coldness in Aragorn's expression shocked Eomund. It was as though the king had never seen him before in his life. There was no recognition, no warmth, no acknowledgement that the King of Gondor had ever met Eomund. Nothing but an impassive mask that chilled Eomund's blood. He had known the King all his life but he had never had to face his displeasure, let alone his wrath, and he was suddenly very, very afraid.

"My lord?" He could hear the nervous quiver in his voice.

The King regarded him coldly for a moment. "I sent word for you to come to Minas Tirith with all possible haste, did I not?"

"Yes, my lord, you did."

"That was ten days ago, Lieutenant Eomund." The King used his military rank and spoke in short, clipped tones. "The journey from Pelargir should not take more than three days. Why did you not arrive sooner?"

"I'm sorry, sire," Eomund said hastily. "I was not in Pelargir, my lord, but aboard a ship coming back from Belfalas. I did not arrive in Pelargir until just three days ago." The King's grey eyes seemed to bore into him as he spoke and Eomund lowered his head again and concentrated on the floor before him. "Forgive me, my lord."

Another long moment of silence and the pain in Eomund's knee was forgotten as he knelt anxiously before the King and waited for the next question.

"You did not stop in Ithilien on your way, to visit your family?"

Eomund shook his head. "No, Sire." Even if the message had not demanded his immediate arrival, he was sure the King already knew he had not been home for months but he said nothing else, unsure of the purpose of the questioning, hoping things would become clearer soon.

"So you are unaware that your sister Estel has disappeared? Run away from her home?"

With a jerk Eomund's head came up and he stared at the King. "What? No, I didn't - When? Why?" He risked a quick glance over to his brother, saw Elboron watching him but could not read the expression on his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the panicky sensation increase as the King continued.

"Apparently she was upset; things have not been well at the Prince of Ithilien's home lately."

Eomund could feel the sweat trickling down his back and sides. Sticky nervous sweat as he listened to the King's words. The Prince of Ithilien, he said. Not the Steward of Gondor. Had his father stepped down as Steward? Was that why Elboron was here? And where was Estel? What had happened in just a few months? He felt a sour roiling in his stomach as his nerves reacted to both the information and the lack of it and he swallowed down the queasiness. Hearing the sound of rustling material and metal scraping on stone he looked up again to find the King standing, advancing toward him. He had still not been ordered to rise and he remained balanced on his knee even as it trembled with strain. Finally the King stood before him, but Eomund put his head down and fixed his eye on the black fur that trimmed the King's mantle. He could feel the authority that radiated from the King, along with a cold anger carefully held in check.

"Can you think of any reason why there would be unhappiness in the Prince's household, Lieutenant?" The King's voice was soft, dangerously soft and silky, and Eomund felt his mouth go dry as he nodded.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah, pray, tell me, Lieutenant."

"My-" Eomund's voice cracked and he had to stop and swallow, try again. "My brother's death, my lord, has made it difficult, I'm sure." He ventured a glance up at the King.

"Hmm." The King looked thoughtful, flicked his gaze to Elboron. "Is that true, my Lord Steward, has the death of the Prince's son made for a difficult time in Ithilien?"

"I am certain it has, my lord." Elboron spoke in a dry, emotionless tone, as though the matter had nothing to do with him.

"Is that all?" Aragorn's voice was deceptively nonchalant. Receiving no answer he turned back to Eomund. "Is that all, Lieutenant?"

Eomund shook his head miserably. The King had called Elboron the Steward, so his father must have given up his position, although why he would do such a thing was beyond Eomund's understanding, and where was Estel, and what about his mother and Alasse? He felt his stomach clench again, was suddenly fearful he might throw up and had to force himself to answer the King's question. "No, Sire," he said in a low voice.

"No?"

"No." Eomund said wretchedly. "I – " he drew a shuddering breath. "I have not – my father and I have not – " The sound of a sword being pulled from the scabbard halted his words and he waited, wondering wildly for a moment if the King was going to kill him. Instead the tip of the sword rose before him, brushed against his chest, stayed there. He raised his eyes to meet those of the King and the wintery gaze there caused them to drop again.

"I know about you and your father, Lieutenant." The King's voice was icy. "I was there at your last visit, do you remember?" Eomund had no reply, could only give a quick nod of his head. Aragorn could see the effect of his words and manner on Eomund, knew the young man had never expected to be summoned before an angry sovereign, given bad news and treated so harshly, but he called up in his mind the picture of Faramir as he had mounted the horse to leave for Rivendell, empty grey eyes in a pinched white face, and he continued mercilessly, keeping his voice tightly controlled. "Lieutenant Eomund, you are relieved of your duties with the Royal Navy. You will not return to Pelargir." The King spoke the words slowly, each syllable like a blow to Eomund. "From this moment on, you have but one duty and one duty only. Find your sister. The army of Gondor has done some of your work for you and searched Osgiliath, with no result. We did learn that she apparently purchased a ticket on a ship leaving for Dol Amroth, so I suggest you start there. That is now your charge and your duty, Lieutenant. Find her."

"Yes, Sire." Eomund nodded, leaned forward to press his forehead against the cold blade of the huge sword, formally acknowledging his charge. He waited, realized there was nothing more and drew back. The sword was withdrawn, scraped back into the scabbard and the King stepped back. Looking up, Eomund saw him walking away, heading toward a doorway and frantically he rose to his feet and took a step toward him. "My lord?"

Aragorn turned, the look in his eyes freezing Eomund and causing him to instantly sink to his knee again. He waited, however, and Eomund took a chance. "Where is my father? Is he also searching for my sister?"

The King's eyes rested on him and Eomund felt as if Aragorn could strip all his defenses away and peer into his soul. He forced himself to meet the King's gaze, saw nothing there to reassure him. "Your father is ill and has left the city," said Aragorn, then turned and left the throne room without another word.

Eomund stayed kneeling on the floor in stunned silence. Ill? How ill? Left the city? And gone where? He felt a strong hand grasp his arm and pull him to his feet and looked into his brother's green eyes.

"Bron? What is happening? What's wrong with Father? Where on earth is Estel?"

Elboron shook his head. "I'm only supposed to speak to you as the Steward, E'mun, I'm sorry." He gestured toward the bronze doors at the front of the hall. "Come, I have a horse and supplies ready for you."

"But-" Eomund allowed his brother to pull him along in the direction of the doors as he continued with his questions. "Where is Father? Is Mother all right? What happened?" Elboron only shook his head again and finally Eomund planted his feet and refused to move any farther. "What HAPPENED, Bron? You must tell me."

Elboron faced him and sighed. "I know very little, E'mun. I only arrived in the city a day ago." He crossed his arms before him as he faced his brother. "Apparently Estel ran away because things were so bad at home."

"Bad? What do you mean bad?"

"Father is not well. After the funeral he stopped eating, lost weight, couldn't sleep," he hesitated, searching for the correct words. "Was not himself. Estel could not bear it."

"Who told you this?"

"Mother, mostly. Alasse. A little from the King but not much that Mother had not already told me. Theoden said when saw him a month ago he looked terrible." Elboron met his brother's eyes and Eomund could see he was troubled. "The King called me back from my company, asked me to take Father's place, until he is recovered."

"Where is he, at home?"

Elboron looked down at his feet, sighed and shook his head. "No."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Eomund stared at his brother. "You don't know?"

Elboron raised his head and Eomund could see the hurt in his eyes. "I don't know. No one does, except the King and Queen, and Mother, and they won't tell us, any of us."

"But, why?" Eomund could feel his temper unraveling.

Elboron sighed again, rubbed at a pale scar that ran along his hairline, the healed gash from when he had jumped into the Anduin after Barahir, Eomund suddenly realized. "He is not well at all, E'mun." There were the faintest beginnings of worry lines around his eyes. "Alasse said he stayed locked in the library for days, until she thinks Mother sent for the King." He hesitated, scrubbed his hand across his mouth. "She said he and the King argued, that he - he struck the King."

Eomund felt his world suddenly lurch violently and could only look at his brother in disbelief. He tried to imagine his father seeking to harm the King in any way but the image would not come. "Father would never – I cannot… Is it true? Did you ask Mother?"

"She will not answer me." Elboron's voice cracked when he replied and Eomund knew why. If Eowyn refused to answer the question, it was only because it was true. The two brothers stood in horrified silence until Eomund spoke.

"The King thinks it is my fault, doesn't he?"

"He did not say that." Elboron's answer was guarded, and his brother heard the unspoken words.

"But-"

The elder brother met the younger's gaze. "He loves Father very, very much."

Eomund bit his lip, looked away for a moment. When he looked back, he was suddenly the little brother again, needing reassurance from the older. "Do you think it is my fault, Bron?"

Elboron opened his mouth, reconsidered, closed it, finally held Eomund in his steady gaze, looking uncannily like their father, Eomund thought, despite the difference in hair and eye color. "You said some terrible things to him, Eomund. You hurt him, and he was already hurt because of Bara. Then with Estel going…"

Eomund stared at the ground, his hands clenching into fists and Elboron saw him give a little shake, as if to prepare himself. When he looked up his face was tight. "I'll find her, Bron."

"I know you will." They stepped outside and a guard was waiting with a large brown Rohirric horse, a bundle of supplies strapped behind the saddle. Eomund took the reins from the guard and turned to face his brother. "I guess I'll head to Dol Amroth first, since that is where she was going." He sighed. "I should stop and see Mother…" his voice petered out as he saw his brother shaking his head. "What?"

"You are not permitted." Elboron spoke painfully. "The King specifically said so. He said - " The young Steward stopped and had to force the words out. "He said that you had not cared enough to come home for three months and you were not to go home now." Sympathetic green eyes met blue ones. Eomund dipped his head slowly in understanding.

"All right." He mounted the horse and gathered the reins. "I'll find her, Bron, I promise."

Elboron nodded, held onto the horse's bridle for a moment. "You're to send updates when you can through the local governor's offices." Eomund gave a short nod in affirmation, started to turn the horse away. Elboron caught at his stirrup and he looked down.

"Good luck, E'mun." Elboron reached up, clasped his brother's hand, and Eomund gripped it hard in return.

"Thank you. I'll bring her back. If -" Eomund looked down at their joined hands and continued awkwardly. "If you find out anything about Father, try to let me know." Elboron gave him a small, sad smile and released his brother's hand, then stood watching as Eomund rode away.

From his private chamber window Aragorn watched them part and the horse and rider begin to make their way down through the circles of the city. Arwen came to stand beside him, slid her arms around his waist as he rested his head back against her shoulder and sighed heavily.

"Was it difficult?" she asked softly.

"One of the hardest things I've ever done," he said. "I hope it is the right thing."

"He has to grow up," she said. "It's time he learned that words and actions can be weapons, too, and leave even worse wounds than swords or arrows."

Aragorn looked at her in surprise. "You are suddenly full of wisdom."

Arwen frowned, watched the figure on horseback ride through the Sixth Gate. "Faramir is a good, kind, decent man," she said crossly, and Aragorn was taken aback at the anger in her usual gentle voice. "He does not deserve to suffer as he has, nor as he is now, nor to have his own son treat him so."

"Eomund does not realize how easy it is to hurt the ones who love us most," he said in a placating voice. "He is young."

"Not so young," she argued. "When you were twenty-three you shouldered a man's responsibilities, as did his father."

"Times were different." He looked at his wife again, saw her dubious look and gave her a slight smile. "Well, perhaps not."

"Times are always 'different'", Arwen said brusquely, arching her eyebrow as if to remind her husband she knew far more than he about 'time'. "There is never the right time for disrespect and arrogance and deliberately hurting someone who loves you."

They stood together at the window for a moment. "He's going to Dol Amroth?" Arwen asked. Aragorn shrugged. "That's where the ticket agent said she went." He pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. "I hope he finds her. No one else has and I cannot imagine where she has gone." Arwen reached up to rub her hands along his arms. "You look tired," she said softly, and she studied him closely, saw the creased lines around his eyes. "You looked for her in the palantir, didn't you?" Aragorn gave a slight nod.

"Just before I met with him. I thought if I could at least have an idea of where he should go…"

"And did you see anything?" Arwen knew he had not, he would have told her immediately if he had. He sighed and shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing that makes any sense to me." He looked worried. "I promised Faramir we would find her."

Arwen hugged him to her and pointed her chin towards Eomund's departing figure. "He will. He's got all of Faramir AND Eowyn's stubbornness combined."

Aragorn grimaced. "Yes, he does. But it's mixed up with Denethor's pride and the natural selfishness of all Men."

"Then you are doing him a service by sifting them out," she said. "Refining him."

Her husband shook his head. "It's a painful process. I don't envy him."

Arwen took his hand and led him away from the window. "Come and eat. You have set the wheel in motion, there is nothing more you can do." They sat down to their breakfast as the brown horse trotted out of the last gate and the sun slid over the horizon to flood the Pelennor with golden light.

* * *

To Be Continued.....

* * *

Thanks to Princess Faz and Clairon for Beta'ing, and Cressida for always helpful information regarding palantir usage! Also to Raksha and Catherine Maria for keeping me on track!


	5. A Distraction

**Note**:  For all of you who have been worried about Faramir at Rivendell.....

* * *

Chapter 5 – A Distraction:

* * *

Celeborn let his guest keep to his room, alone, for two days but on the morning of the third, he knocked gently on the carved door. After a long while the door was opened slightly and Faramir stared at him. Stared at some point past him, actually, but Celeborn chose not to notice. "I am preparing to break my fast, Lord Faramir, and would like to invite you to join me." He waited, could almost see the words working their way through Faramir's head, and eventually the grey eyes focused on him. He saw the struggle between the wish to be left alone and the natural courtesy of Faramir's nature. As always, duty and courtesy won out and he finally gave a brief nod of agreement.

"Thank you, my lord," said Faramir softly, opening the door wider to give Celeborn entrance. "If you will give me a moment…" He was neatly dressed in clean clothes, even if they seemed too large, and he crossed the room to sit on the window seat and slowly tug on his boots. Celeborn took a quick glance around the room. The fire had not been kindled and the bed appeared to be undisturbed, although a blanket had been pulled from the closet and now lay neatly folded across one of the chairs on the balcony. The tray of food that he had had Lathelinor deliver last evening sat untouched on the table, just as the one the night before had been returned to the kitchen. He studied his guest as he pulled on the high leather boots, seeing the slight tremble in the hands, the beads of sweat suddenly appear on his upper lip, and wondered if he had eaten at all since his arrival. When at last he stood up Celeborn saw him close his eyes a moment and grit his teeth, as if he were light-headed. The Elf Lord knew better, however, than to offer an arm for support and merely turned and left the room, Faramir following.

They made their way through the house to the back entry and across the large porch there. Below the porch lay the east garden and near the edge was a table set for the morning meal with plates of fruit, bread, biscuits glazed with honey, a large pitcher of juice, anything at all, in fact, that Celeborn had thought might tempt Faramir's appetite. He gestured toward a chair and seated himself as Faramir did the same, then offered each dish in turn, placing a bit of food from most of them on his own plate but noticing that his guest's remained empty. At last he frowned slightly and looked at him. "You do not want to be here." It was not a question and Faramir kept his eyes on his bare plate.

"No…" He stared at the table and Celeborn nodded in understanding.

"Perhaps under other circumstances." He sipped from a glass of red juice and sighed. "Legolas told me all that has happened. You have my sympathy." Faramir's pale face went rigid but he said nothing and Celeborn kept talking, wondering if he could get more than a short one or two word response from this silent man. Aragorn's letter had contained much more besides what Legolas had known, and Celeborn truly felt sorry for the man and all that had befallen his family in just a short time. He kept his gaze on Faramir as he continued. "I am sorry for your loss, it must be very hard." The tiniest of nods encouraged him. "And I am certain Aragorn will find your daughter," he said quietly, taking another sip from his glass. "Your son," he shook his head. "He will have to learn for himself that often what happens in life has little to do with what we had intended." He waited but only a muscle twitched in Faramir's cheek and Celeborn decided to change the subject.

"How are you sleeping?" The abrupt change in topic caught Faramir off guard. He had been expecting, even dreading, the Elf Lord's sympathetic words, while those concerning Estel and Eomund, words he suspected were supposed to be encouraging, only left him angry as he pictured Legolas telling all of Faramir's private concerns to Celeborn, and filled him with the familiar sick dread that he now experienced whenever he thought of any of his children. The seemingly unrelated question concerning his sleeping habits threw him, and he looked up, his eyes guarded.

"Everything is fine, my lord."

Celeborn pursed his lips and nodded agreeably even as his words said the opposite. "I don't think you're sleeping at all." He saw the slightest reaction cross Faramir's face like a wave and instantly disappear. "Or eating," he finished.

"I am not hungry." Faramir looked away, knew he sounded petulant, like a child, but the Elf only looked thoughtful and nodded. There was silence as he finished his meal and drank the remainder of the juice in his glass, then his eyes met Faramir's.

"Would you walk with me?" He rose gracefully and gestured toward a path that led away from the garden into the towering trees surrounding the northeastern side of the house. The sun was pricking its way down through the leaves, making small yellow patches beneath them as they walked along the path in silence, each seemingly content to have it so for a while.

The path meandered between the trees and along the edge of the garden and then turned westward and followed the edge of the River Bruinen, the water rushing along below them in the deepest cleft of the valley. Celeborn kept his silence and the Man beside him moved with slow steps, head down, hands clasped behind his back. The Elf could see the sharp angles of Faramir's cheekbones and the tight expression around his mouth and he began to fear that he might not find a way to reach him, to release him from the despair that imprisoned him.

They followed the pathway as it skirted the cliff along the river, around the house and headed toward the great Stone Bridge, standing at length upon the edge of the wide overpass, in a little hollow among the rocks, gazing down into the smooth grey water that slid quickly beneath them. "Lord Faramir, you are here to regain your health, if there is anything I can do for you, you need only tell me," said Celeborn quietly as the water gurgled under the ancient stones. "I want to help you."

Faramir stared into the river and shook his head slightly. "There is nothing I need," he said.

"Eating and sleeping would be a good start," said Celeborn in a dry voice. There was no response and he studied Faramir for a moment. "Do you trust your king, my lord?"

"Yes." Faramir's answer came back instantly, the strongest statement he had yet made to Celeborn, and the Elf took advantage it. He leaned closer to the man and caught his eye, held it with his own commanding gaze. He was pleased when Faramir did not look away but returned the look, his own face unreadable. Celeborn paused, wanting to choose his words carefully; Aragorn had warned in the letter that Faramir's pride, while different from his father's and brother's, was no less, and the Elf spoke with caution, not wanting to offend.

"Then do as he asks."

Faramir raised his chin slightly, keeping his eyes on Celeborn's. "He asked that I come to Rivendell. I am here."

"He asked that you come to Rivendell and get well, my lord." The Elf's voice was gently persuasive. "To do so, you must eat, and sleep."

Faramir stared at him and then dropped his gaze to the river. Long minutes of silence passed as he stared intently at the water and Celeborn, sensing a change in him, waited with infinite patience. Finally Faramir reached out and gripped the side of the bridge where it seemed to melt into the rocks of the hillside, ran his hands along the rough stones and closed his eyes. "The river here makes me think of a place I know, a cave, in Ithilien, behind a waterfall," he said, his voice soft with memory. "I spent many days and nights there when I was younger. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I am there…"

Celeborn had frozen at the first words, more words than he had gotten from Faramir since his arrival at Rivendell, and now he stayed still, waiting to see if there would be more. True, the stubborn man was changing the subject, but he was at least talking. When nothing further was said the Elf pressed gently. "And you have good memories of that place?"

Faramir shook his head and his mouth turned up in a bitter smile. "No. It was during the war." He faltered, rubbed the stone again, realizing he did have some happy memories. There had been good times; the relief upon arriving safely after a hard fight, quiet evenings around the fire joking with his men, unannounced visits from his brother when they would sit and talk, away from the tensions of home. He continued hesitantly as he gazed into the river again. "Yes. Perhaps. I don't know. The sound of the water made me think of it." He sighed again, wondered what on earth had prompted him to speak of Henneth Annun, and leaned tiredly against the stones, kneading his fingers into his eyes in a vain attempt to release the ache behind them.

Celeborn saw the weariness in the gesture. "My lord, you must get some rest. I can have Lathelinor bring a soothing drink to your chambers -"

"I am fine! I have no need of Elvish sleeping draughts!" Faramir's voice suddenly cracked with anger. Anger at Celeborn for being so kind. Anger at himself for being so weak. Anger at Aragorn for sending him here, at Estel, at Eomund, at anyone. Random, directionless anger at whoever or whatever might be available, and he was immediately ashamed of himself. He closed his eyes and as Celeborn watched he visibly forced his personal feelings down and become someone else. The grieving father was gone, suddenly replaced by the diplomat, the politician. He straightened and blank grey eyes met those of the Elf and Celeborn smiled inwardly. Apparently there was still that backbone of steel there amidst all the turmoil and it encouraged him that Faramir would eventually find his way again even as he saw the sudden anger evaporate and the Man looked contritely at the Elf. "Forgive me." His voice was flat and emotionless once more.

Celeborn made a gesture that said an apology was unnecessary and continued his sentence. "It is not a sleeping draught, my lord, merely a calming tea. I was told by Terressah in the kitchens you enjoyed it upon your last visit to Imladris, and I thought only to offer it again."

Faramir wilted, settling back into his melancholy and lowered his head, letting his hair hide his face as he wrestled with his embarrassment. He remembered the hot, fragrant tea, sweetened with various herbs and how he and Eowyn had enjoyed a cup each evening when they had visited years ago. "Forgive me," he said again, his voice dropping to a whisper that could barely be heard above the rushing water.

"I shall send Lathelinor with it later today. If you do not wish it, just leave it on the table." Celeborn spoke in a reasonable voice and Faramir nodded his acceptance. "Shall I send your meal also?" the Elf asked, hoping against all indications that Faramir might refuse this time and choose to eat with everyone else in the hall. He was not surprised however when the Man nodded in agreement.

"Thank you."

"Very well." Celeborn bowed his head slightly. "I must attend to some things…" His look asked if Faramir would accompany him, but he shook his head.

"I will stay here." He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. "The sound of the water is peaceful." Opening his eyes he fixed his gaze once more on the water flowing past them and Celeborn left him standing there staring into the river, lost in thought.

* * *

Faramir stood in the great hall of Minas Tirith, facing his father, easily reading the disgust and disappointment on the noble face, and forced himself to stand straight and tall before him.

"Again you have failed me," said Denethor in a heavy voice, as if he had never expected anything less.

"Forgive me, Father." Faramir was glad his voice did not tremble. "I have only done as I thought best. If I have displeased you –"

"If? If?" Denethor's scowl deepened. "When you have NOT displeased me?" His mouth suddenly curved into a smile as he turned and beckoned someone forward. "Why can you not be more like your brother?" Boromir stepped up to stand beside his father.

"Boromir!" Faramir was pleased to see him and moved forward, his hand outstretched eagerly, but Boromir looked at him with distaste.

"You're just like him," he said, shaking his head hopelessly, and walked past Faramir.

"That's not true!" Faramir reached out, clutching at Boromir's sleeve, pulling him back to him. "I'm not like him!" He grabbed Boromir by the shoulder and whirled him around, only to find him changed into Barahir, his face white and water-soaked, looking at him with sad blue eyes.

"Father." The pale lips spoke and Faramir reached for his son but he disappeared as his arms went around him.

"Bara?" He looked around him, but it was strange and misty in the throne room and he could not see anything.

"You killed him." He turned to find Boromir looking at him, shaking his head and frowning

"NO! I did as I thought best!"

"Just like Father…" Boromir was suddenly at his shoulder, hissing the words into his ear, speaking with Eomund's voice and Faramir spun around, his hand raised against his older brother, bringing it forward to strike him, and Boromir caught his wrist, held him in his iron grasp. He pushed Faramir backward and he fell, landed hard on something, found himself seated in the Steward's chair, facing Eomund, who glared at him through hate-filled eyes.

"Murderer," he said, his voice deadly. They were no longer in the throne room; the Steward's chair now sat alongside the Anduin, and as Faramir looked at the river he saw a pale Elven boat bobbing past. With his heart in his throat he waded out, the water dragging at his steps, and looked inside.

There was a man lying in the boat, a dead man, but it was not Boromir. It was Barahir, dressed in the blue tunic that he had been buried in, his hands clasped on his chest, and as Faramir stared at him, the body changed, became that of another man, an older man, his dark hair flecked with grey, and in his hands was the Steward's white rod and Faramir clutched the side of the boat as he recognized himself.

With a low moan he released the boat and it drifted downstream with the current. He turned, desperate to reach the safety of the river bank but the water was rough and treacherous and tugged at him and he could not walk through it. He was struggling, struggling against the water, struggling to reach the shore, and he fell, tried to get back on his feet, could feel the water pulling at him. He was reaching out, trying to catch himself, when he felt a hand take his, looked up into Boromir's face.

"Little brother." Boromir smiled and Faramir felt a great rush of relief, knew that all would be well, now, and he started to climb up out of the water, but Boromir's hand loosened and Faramir raised his eyes to find his face was now twisted with hatred. "You're just like him," he said. "Just like Father…" His features wavered, blurred, changed into Denethor's, the grey eyes dark with disgust and revulsion and he released his grip and stepped back from the riverbank. "I wish that you had died and Boromir had lived," he whispered and Faramir slipped beneath the black water as Eomund's voice echoed in his ears. "Murderer."

"Murderer." Faramir jerked awake, covered with sweat, heart pounding, with Eomund's voice still swirling around him in the dark. He sat up in the balcony chair and threw the blanket aside, his hands trembling as he gasped for breath. Grinding the heel of his hand against his head he clenched his jaw, consciously steadied his breathing, and swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth.

Sleep, Celeborn had said, and in the dark Faramir's mouth twisted cynically. How could he sleep when he knew to do so would let the dreams come. Dreams of death and hatred and angry words. Every night. He had not spoken of them, so they could not understand, Eowyn, Celeborn, but that is what kept him from sleep, that is why he struggled against it so hard, because once he let go the dreams came and he was so tired of fighting them, could not fight them any longer. He rubbed his head again and stood up, folded the blanket and placed it on the chair and sat back down, staring up at the sky, knowing here would be no more sleeping tonight.

* * *

"I see no reason to carry it to his room again, when I will no doubt carry it back tomorrow morning!" Lathelinor's voice was vexed as she stood in the large kitchen of Imladris, a tray of food and drink before her on the table. She frowned at Celeborn and used her slight show of temper to hide the fact that she was worried about her charge, the pale, silent man who politely accepted the tray each evening and just as politely returned it untouched each morning. Well, Lathelinor had to be honest. Not completely untouched. Some days he had eaten a small bit of bread, others a piece of fruit, once nearly half a pressed cake of oats and honey, but never enough to truly be called a meal. The pitcher of water would be half empty, perhaps, but the wine or juice would be full to the top, just as she had delivered it, and the evening tea was always returned cold in the pot.

Celeborn nodded in agreement with her. "No doubt you will, but it must be offered, Lathelinor. One day he will eat it." He watched as she snatched up the tray and left the kitchen, muttering to herself and sympathized with her frustration. Nearly two weeks since Legolas had delivered Faramir and the King's letter to him, and he was still unable to even pierce the wary shell that the man had drawn around him. Celeborn had hoped their conversation on the bridge that first week would signal a change, but if anything he grew more withdrawn and the only difference seemed to be that now rather than spend the days in his room Faramir wandered the grounds aimlessly, sooner or later ending up on the bridge, where he would stand for hours looking into the water. He was still not eating, and although Celeborn would not have believed it possible, the dark circles under his eyes in his thin face were worse. He moved about Rivendell like a specter, pale and silent, and the other Elves at Rivendell, having been instructed by Celeborn to leave him undisturbed, did so, speaking only a soft greeting if they passed by, though he rarely noticed.

Now, Celeborn left the kitchen and climbed the steps to his own chambers. The window there looked out towards the bridge and he saw the slim figure there now, pacing along the wide stone walkway. He had been there most of the day, just as he was nearly every other day. The Elf frowned and his mouth thinned as his gaze rested on the dark-headed figure.

On the bridge Faramir stared into the water, watching it foam among the rocks below him. He thought of the Anduin River in Osgiliath, and how the water had washed over the rocks there after the last bridge had been pulled down during the war. That horrible day and night as his and Boromir's forces had desperately held long enough to destroy the bridge and deny the hordes of orcs and uruk-hai access to the western shore. He remembered the way the water had rippled over the broken arch stones that had fallen, over abandoned weapons, and finally over the bodies of the dead. On the bridge in Rivendell it was as if he could feel the icy water closing over him and he shuddered and closed his eyes, thoughts of his nightmares crowding upon him until he shook himself and firmly forced his mind elsewhere.

He thought of Boromir, gone these many years. Had his older brother stood on this bridge in those long ago days, thought of him, and home? He had left for Rivendell soon after the battle in the ruined city, and that was the last time he had seen him. No, he realized he had seen him one last time, when the river had borne the funeral boat past him. Faramir stared into the white-flecked water below him, his mind once more on the Anduin, the river that had taken so much; his men, his brother, and finally his son. Barahir's face suddenly rose before him followed in quick succession by Eomund's sneer and the tear-stained face of Estel as he had passed by her after his argument with Aragorn and he felt the stabbing pain once more, his knees going weak as he wondered where his daughter was and even though he expected it, knew it was always there waiting in the shadows for him to drop his guard, when the great black wave of hopelessness crashed over him he nearly gasped with the weight of it.

She was gone, who knew where, and his heart twisted inside him. Estel, his Hope, so brave and reckless, so much like her mother, so much like Boromir. Gone because she had feared him. Feared his anger and his cold despair and he had been too blinded with his grief to see. Just as his father had been. Faramir felt a chill. He had treated his child as his father had treated him, and now she was gone. Gone. Taken from him, in an instant, like Barahir. Like Boromir. And Eomund, nearly the same. Gone by his own choosing.

He thought back to the last time Barahir had been home, how he had sat on the veranda and joked and laughed with his father and mother, teasing his little sisters and Eowyn had kissed him goodbye, told him to be careful. He had laughed and promised and hugged his father and climbed onto the vicious black stallion that he preferred above all their horses and ridden away as Faramir and Eowyn stood holding hands on the steps. Just as Boromir had ridden away from him, Faramir thought, none of them realizing they would never see each other again. Gone, with no warning. No time to say the things that should have been said. Why hadn't he said he loved him? Why hadn't he held him a little tighter, a little longer? Did his other children know how much he loved them?

Faramir had been walking along the bridge but now he halted, stood unmoving as the grief closed up his throat, smothering him, suffocating him. He had failed his children, not just Estel, or Eomund, but all of them. Elboron, now called back and forced to fill his father's position, and Sam, who should be able to come to his father his first year as a soldier, seek advice and encouragement but could not. He thought of Alasse and her sweet smile and Theoden's face when he and Elabet had announced the coming baby and the ache in his chest increased. He was determined to hold back the tears, refused to allow them to fall even as the throbbing in his head intensified and his insides knotted and twisted.

He walked slowly to the edge of the bridge and sat down on a large, flat rock, feeling his heart beating wildly within his chest and gasping in painful ragged breaths, willing the tears back. He missed them, all of them, had always loved any time spent with his children, but mostly he missed Eowyn. He missed her warmth beside him at night, missed her soft kisses and he actually ached for the gentle touches she would give him each day as she passed him. Missed having her to talk to, missed the look in her eyes that said she loved him. He stopped, thought back. Had it been there those last few weeks? He couldn't remember. Did she still love him, after what he had done? Or had he destroyed that, too? The memory of their fight the night before he had gone to Minas Tirith still gnawed at him, and his head sank down into his hands.

The ringing of the bell for dinner came to him and he lifted his head in confusion. He had gone for a walk after Lathelinor had knocked in his door and left a tray with breakfast, and as always had ended up restlessly pacing the bridge. Had the day passed? How? He couldn't remember that either. With a sigh he stood and walked back to his room, passing the dinner tray on the table without even noticing it. On the balcony he sank into the cushioned chair and stared into the trees until darkness fell and it grew colder. Then taking the blanket lying there he shook it out and wrapped it around his shoulders, watching the stars appear in the night sky as he waited for the deadening sleep of exhaustion to give him a few hours respite.

* * *

The next day it rained, the soft drops falling gently among the trees and statues of Rivendell, and most of the inhabitants stayed indoors avoiding the wet weather. Most, but not all. Celeborn looked out his window and shook his head at the slender figure once more keeping his lonely vigil on the bridge. The Elf leaned back in his chair and wondered briefly what the King of Gondor would do if he not only failed to help his Steward regain his health but let him catch pneumonia while in his care. After thoughtful consideration, he decided to wait a while before trying to persuade Faramir to come in, suspecting it would not be an easy task.

Faramir didn't even feel the rain as it soaked through his clothing and ran down to drip from his fingertips. A mist rose up from the river below and swirled around the bridge where he stood and he thought of the day Barahir had been buried, and how the fog had floated in ragged curtains around the green knoll. He shivered slightly in the chill and closed his eyes and it was as if he could hear the drum beats once again, slow and steady, but muffled this morning in the mist and he was overwhelmed by his sadness and almost dizzy with weariness.

The sound drew closer and he suddenly realized it was not the drum beats of his memory but the muted hooves of a horse as it picked its careful way across the bridge in the fog. Unexpectedly a shaggy pony materialized only a few feet away from him and both he and the pony gave a slight jump of surprise. From the pony's saddle a small figure pulled back his hood and grinned with delight.

"Faramir!" Pippin's voice was raised in excitement and he leaped down from the pony and ran forward to greet his friend, his arms extended to hug him tightly when he suddenly realized it was perhaps not the most dignified of greetings and he stopped and stepped back to formally bow. "My lord," he said, his voice still trembling with pleasure. When he straightened he looked at the man before him and his smile faded. "You look awful." He frowned. "What are you doing out here in the rain? You'll catch your death." He paused, waiting for an answer, his face expectant.

Faramir could only stare down at the hobbit in shock, taking in the bright eyes and ready smile, the large furry feet and the tips of pointed ears peeping out of the curly head. Pippin took advantage of his silence to pull open his cloak and reveal that he was wearing his old Gondorian uniform, the black cloth straining a bit across his stomach. "I've gotten a little stout!" he announced without embarrassment. "But I wanted to wear it while I was traveling, just in case I ran into any troublemakers." He reached down and patted his small sword proudly, then took the pony's reins in his hand and continued across the bridge, turning back to motion to Faramir. "Come on, I'm cold, aren't you?"

"Pippin?" Faramir continued to stare at him in disbelief. "Why – What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," said the hobbit as if that explained everything, which to his mind it did. He gestured for Faramir to follow him. "Come on, let's not get any wetter!" As if he had no choice Faramir followed him, obediently trailing along behind as Pippin approached the large house and tugged his pack from the pony. A smiling male Elf welcomed him and offered to take the pony to the stables and Pippin gladly agreed, rubbing the beast's ears affectionately before it was led away.

He looked back up to see Celeborn on the porch waiting for him. "Master Hobbit, it has been many years," he said with a smile. Pippin smiled back and scurried up the steps and across the floor to greet him as Faramir remained standing in the rain, looking confused.

"Lord Celeborn!" He bowed quickly and bobbed up again. "How lovely to see you. Are you the master of the house now that Lord Elrond has gone?"

"Ah, master, no," Celeborn shook his head. "If anyone bears that title it would truly be Elladan or Elrohir, but they are often away, and I am here, so I am happy to fulfill any duties that arise. Such as greeting guests." He smiled again at the irrepressible Halfling before him. "I hope you are staying for a while? May I offer you a room?" Pippin grinned.

"Yes, you may!" He turned toward Faramir. "Where are you staying?" Without waiting for an answer he spun back to Celeborn. "I want to stay near Faramir, it's been a long time since I saw him and I want to hear all about everything."

Celeborn shot a quick glance at Faramir to see if this seemed agreeable and to his surprise Faramir nodded and slowly climbed the steps to join them. "Very well," he said. "Follow me." Pippin gathered up his small bundle and padded along behind the tall Elf Lord, looking back frequently to assure himself that Faramir was following.

"Oh, it's been so long since I was here, but it still looks the same," he said, glancing around the house appreciatively. "Do you still have a big meal in the evening?" He looked hopeful and Celeborn chuckled.

"We do, sir, but I fear that is some hours away, yet. May I have something sent up to your room from the kitchen?"

"Yes, please," said Pippin, licking his lips in anticipation.

Celeborn halted before the first door along the same hallway where Faramir's room was at the end and Pippin pushed it open and tossed his things on the bed without a word. Flinging off his sopping cloak he let it slide to the floor and immediately came back out into the hallway. "If Diamond were here she would scold me," he laughed. He peered up into Faramir's face. "Where is your room?"

Celeborn watched with interest as Faramir pointed down the hall to his room and Pippin immediately headed toward the door, then turned back to his host. "Actually, can you have my dinner sent to Faramir's room? I want to visit with him a while."

"Of course."

Pippin motioned Faramir to follow him. "Come, entertain me while I eat, Faramir." He waited and let Faramir enter the room before he followed him through the door. As he did he looked straight at Celeborn, flicked his gaze toward Faramir's back and raised his eyebrows. With relief the Elf Lord realized that while the hobbit had been chattering he had sized up the situation and understood, and would make every effort to help his friend. Celeborn bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the hobbit's gesture and turned to go, glad that he had sent Legolas to the Shire.

Inside the room Pippin looked around him. "Faramir, it's cold in here!" He knelt before the fireplace and in moments a cheerful blaze was crackling there, warming the room and throwing its light about the shadowy corners. The hobbit retrieved the blanket from the balcony, giving it a slight shake and pulled the door shut, hanging the damp blanket over the handle. Yanking open the cupboard door he found a dry one and threw it on the bed, not commenting on its untouched condition, then turned to Faramir. "Where are your dry clothes?"

Faramir looked down at himself as if just now realizing he was drenched. Pippin was already rooting through the clothes that had been neatly folded on the closet shelf. "Here," he said, thrusting a pair of breeches and a heavy shirt toward Faramir. "Get dry and put these on." Without a word Faramir pulled off his wet clothes and used the damp blanket to dry himself, then climbed into the dry outfit. As he finished a knock sounded at the door. "I'll get it," chorused Pippin, quickly crossing the room and graciously accepting the heavy tray of food that Lathelinor offered. She hesitated, unsure if the small creature before her could manage the weight, but Pippin firmly took it from her hand and thanked her, asking that she shut the door behind her.

He tottered across the floor and slid the tray onto the table, his eyes round with expectation. "Oh, look, there are some of those berry things that are so good!" he said with delight. He crawled up onto the too high chair and turned to Faramir. "What do you want to start with?"

All this time Faramir had been staring at the hobbit, dutifully following his instructions and allowing himself to be ordered about. Now he stood and crossed his arms, suspiciously looking down at him. "Why are you here, Pippin?" he asked in a tired monotone.

Pippin stuffed a cream-filled pastry into his mouth and crossed his own arms. He was not the young hobbit he had been years ago and he returned Faramir's look without fear or embarrassment. "Legolas came to the Shire a few days ago," he said simply. "He told us your daughter was missing and asked that we keep an eye out for her." He crammed another pastry into his mouth and chewed, undeterred by the annoyed look on Faramir's face. "He also said," he paused to pour a drink from the pitcher of ale that Lathelinor had thoughtfully provided, "that you were here, so I thought I would come and see you."

He tactfully neglected to mention (and tact was not Pippin's strong suit) that Legolas had told him everything that had happened, and had warned him of Faramir's bleak state of mind. Along with Merry and Sam, Pippin had listened with growing horror as the story unfolded and had decided he would come to Rivendell even before Legolas had suggested it. All of the hobbits had great affection for Faramir, and would gladly have come, and he had seen that the Elf was pleased with their offer, but in the end it was only Pippin who rode to Rivendell. Sam's large family would find it difficult to get along without him, and Merry had nodded with understanding when Pippin had asked to come alone. "I don't know why, but it is the way it should be," Pippin had said and Merry had smiled and wished him well, recognizing the love of a squire for his lord. So it was Pippin alone who would leave the Shire again after many years. Explaining to his wife, who did not understand his reasons but wished him well, and bidding his own son goodbye, the stout hobbit had immediately set off for the Elvish home. Now he gazed at Faramir, hiding his dismay over his friend's appearance and demeanor. In Pippin's experience, however, worry solved nothing, so he didn't do it. Instead he smiled engagingly and patted the chair next to him. "Come, sit down and eat with me."

"I'm not hungry." Faramir spoke angrily, certain that Legolas had sent the hobbit with instructions to look after him. He detested being coddled, and now he glared down at Pippin.

"Well I am, and you can keep me company." Pippin poked warily at some sort of jellied fruit concoction in front of him before sliding it onto his plate as Faramir paced the room.

"I suppose Legolas told you everything? He has everyone else." Faramir felt his temper rising. Was he to become everyone's charity case? There was no need for all this maneuvering and fussing over him. He just wanted to be left in peace! He drew himself up, stiff with wounded pride and hurt. "You didn't need to come all this way. I don't need looking after, I don't want it. I just want to be left alone." Pippin ignored him to paw through some sliced cheeses, so Faramir repeated himself. "There was no reason for you to come."

"Hmm." Pippin poured more ale and added some more of the berry tarts to his already overflowing plate. He took a drink from his cup and gave Faramir an appraising glance. "I came because you are my friend, Faramir."

Faramir flushed suddenly. It was true. He and Pippin had been friends for a long time. They had met at the end of the war, and only spent a few short months together, to be sure, but ever since then they had kept up a lively correspondence, and Pippin had named his only child after the Steward of Gondor. Faramir looked away, staring at the rain-streaked windows. "I did not mean to sound ungrateful, Pippin."

"I know." The hobbit's voice was quiet and he jumped down from the chair and approached the tall man. "I hated to think of you facing this all alone." He looked up into Faramir's eyes. "Even if you want to be, it just doesn't seem right."

Faramir suddenly gave a deep, painful sigh and knelt down before the Halfling so they were facing one another and felt the small arms tentatively steal around his neck and give him a careful hug. "I'm sorry, Faramir." The hobbit's voice quavered as his tender heart grieved anew for his friend. "Sorry for all your troubles, truly."

The tears sprang into Faramir's eyes but for some reason it was all right if Pippin saw. Pippin had seen him near death, bloody and feverish after the battle on the Pelennor; Pippin had saved him from his father's madness, saved his life by running for Mithrandir. Pippin had sat by his side afterward and told him about Boromir's last days. And Pippin had for years sent him cheery, chatty letters, full of news and jokes and good humor. He was a friend. A friend; different from Aragorn, who was also his King, or Eowyn, who was his wife. He was, as he always had been, just Pippin, and Faramir of Gondor had nothing to hide from Pippin Took of the Shire. Or prove to him. No expectations to be met, no reputation to live up to. Only Pippin, hugging him and murmuring soft words of empathy and concern, so Faramir cautiously returned the embrace, even though he quickly pulled back and swiped at his eyes. "Thank you, Pippin."

The hobbit nodded and caught Faramir's hand. "Come, sit down and eat with me." He pulled Faramir toward the table and was pleased when he followed.

Pippin ate a lot of everything, and offered a little of everything to Faramir, who did not eat much but it was more than he had eaten in weeks, and as he did, he softly began to answer Pippin's questions and to speak of the last few months, and Pippin remembered a conversation he had had with Gandalf years before in the days after the defeat of Sauron, when they were all gathered in Minas Tirith. The group had spent the afternoon talking and the hobbit had tried to express the wonders of Lothlorien and the majesty of the Elves there, specifically the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. "They call him Celeborn the Wise," Pippin said and Gandalf, trying to nap under a tree, had opened one grumpy eye and grunted at him.

"He is called Celeborn the Wise because he is Celeborn the Silent, sir," he said, only half in jest, and letting his eyes close once more the Wizard frowned and lay back beneath the tree. "It is amazing the things you can learn if you can manage to hold your tongue. So I say to you, Peregrin Took, if you would like to be thought wise, then first you must be quiet, and I suggest you start now." Everyone had laughed at Pippin's expense, including himself, but he had considered the words and seen the truth in them. Now, he thought back to that advice and listened quietly as the afternoon passed, letting Faramir speak whenever and about whatever he wanted. Outside the gentle rain fell steadily and the mist drifted past the windows, isolating them from the rest of the world.

As Faramir spoke, at times he would suddenly fall silent and the hobbit would reach across the table and pat his hand and Faramir would give him a little smile, grateful for a sympathetic ear and gentle nature. When he finished Pippin merely sat in silence. "I'm sorry," he said once more, knowing there was nothing else to say and Faramir nodded in acceptance.

At last Pippin stretched and picked up the teapot that had come with the food from where he had placed it before the fire to keep it hot. Lifting the lid he sniffed and smiled. "Oh, it's that good, sweet tea. I had it here before." He poured two generous cupfuls, sliding one across the table toward Faramir, who hesitated. Pippin knew of the tea's calming properties, saw his reluctance and gave him an understanding smile. "It's just a cup of tea, Faramir. If it makes you sleepy that's all right, you could use a little sleep."

Faramir stared into the cup and smelled the tea, remembered the quiet evenings he and Eowyn had spent years ago in their suite of rooms here in Rivendell and suddenly felt very tired and weary and the idea of a night's peaceful sleep seemed very enticing. He picked up the cup and took a small sip and Pippin smiled and picked up his and took a large one. They drank the tea in silence and when his cup was empty Pippin placed it on the tray and watched as Faramir finished his and then yawned.

The hobbit slid down from his chair and took Faramir's hand, guided him toward the bed that had stood empty for so many days. Faramir reluctantly sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at his friend. "I'm not tired," he said.

"Yes, you are," said Pippin softly. "Lie down." Faramir lay back and Pippin took the blanket he had placed there earlier and tucked it around the Man when he was settled. He would have liked to encourage Faramir to undress and crawl beneath the covers, but he suspected just getting him to lie down was a major victory and he said nothing to spoil it. "Go to sleep," he said encouragingly. Faramir looked at him and it seemed to the hobbit that the grey eyes looked a trifle less wary, a little more peaceful. True, the worry line was still between them, and his face was thin and drawn, but he had eaten and was now lying down and Pippin smiled and patted Faramir's hand once more and thought back many years, when both Merry and Faramir had been recuperating in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Pippin had gone often to visit them both and the friendship between the young hobbit and the young Steward of Gondor had grown and flourished. More than once he had performed this same task for the Man before him, encouraging him to lie down, take some rest and recover his strength so that he might face the next day's demands. Now he gave the blanket one last adjustment before returning to the table and quietly gathering up the empty dishes. When he had finished he stole a glance toward the bed and saw that Faramir was asleep, his eyes closed and his breathing soft and steady and Pippin was pleased.

As the rain fell quietly outside in the pale gray light of early evening, Peregrin Took slipped out the door and returned to his own room in Imladris to get some rest.

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

Note: A suggestion – there is a lovely new story by Alexis Steele/Red Jacket Girl called The Hands of the Steward. It's movie canon, so our "Faramir's" don't match (which should make you DW lovers happy) but there is a lovely development of the friendship between Pippin and Faramir that is just how I pictured it. They have graciously given me permission to urge all of you to read it. The story is not very long, and I highly recommend it.

Again – Thanks to Princess Faz and Clairon for the Beta work. Catherine Maria for good long reviews, Raksha for reminding me everyone wanted to know what was happening with "poor dear Faramir", and everyone else who is kind enough to read and review.


	6. A Debt

Note:  As per request - Eomund suffers. 

Question:  Is anyone else having trouble accessing chapters?  I can't get my own story to come up on my home computer.  I've asked 3 times that fanfic fix it, but so far nothing.  I may have to delete the entire story and repost.  Annoying!

Anyway, onward....

* * *

Chapter 6: A Debt

* * *

"Would you like another, your grace?" The serving girl, a blowsy thing past her prime with frizzled dark hair, leaned across Eomund's table, making sure her bosom was well exposed. She slid a knowing gaze toward the brown bottle in his hand and smiled when he glared moodily at her. "Come on, then, just a little more. Help you forget your troubles?"

Eomund gave a derisive snort and drained the last drops from the bottle. He hesitated, then gave her a nod and as if by magic his empty bottle was replaced by a full one and she gave him a grin. "Didn't think you were ready to leave just yet." She gathered up the empty bottles from the table and sauntered away, twitching her behind suggestively, unaware Eomund was looking down at the table, not her.

He took a swallow from the bottle, grimacing at the sour taste of the wine, and tipped his chair back to rest against the wall, leaning his head on the rough plaster. Forget his troubles? Not likely. His troubles traveled with him, he thought miserably as he took another drink. Five weeks of troubles. Five weeks and not a sign of Estel. Nothing. He had searched every cranny of Dol Amroth, and found nothing. No one had seen a young girl debark from any ships from Osgiliath. No one had seen anything. He'd gone back to Osgiliath, questioned the ticket agent again, but the man was adamant. The only young girl he'd seen that week with black hair and grey eyes had specifically purchased a ticket for Dol Amroth.

Eomund had searched Osgiliath again, he'd searched Pelargir, he'd searched every little village with a dock along the river. He had ridden the length of Lebennin and even crossed over the river to search some of the Haradric towns along the coast. She seemed to have vanished and that is what he had to write in every message that he posted from the governor's offices whenever he passed them. No sign, no clue, nothing. He banged his fist down on the small table before him, causing a brief lull in the conversation around him as the other customers gave him curious looks, then went back to their own business. Eomund took another drink and closed his eyes. And no word from Elboron. Meaning he still had no idea where Father was. Or how he was. He sighed, looked at the bottle in his hand.

He was not really a drinker. None of Faramir's sons were. He had never forbidden them, and the wine and ale flowed freely at holidays and special occasion. But the danger of dulled senses and addled wits had been mentioned in more than one instance and Eomund knew he was behaving foolishly. It was because he had gotten his hopes up, he realized. An old woman selling fruit in a small river town had spoken of rumors, young girls lured to Umbar, tempted with promises of easy work and good wages in the coastal city, only to find themselves upon arrival handed over to the mistresses of the expensive brothels the city boasted.

It was an old story. Eomund knew the King had made every attempt to clean out the seedier places in his kingdom, but Umbar was far removed from Minas Tirith and policing the entire city was not possible. Eomund had arrived there torn between his desire to find his sister and his fear that he would. A quick stop at the governor's office to request some soldiers from the regiment stationed there and he had started in, forcing himself to visit every known house in the city and a few on the outskirts. His credentials from the King and the grim-faced men accompanying him had opened doors wide, if grudgingly, but once again he had come up empty-handed. Of all the sad-faced girls he had seen, none had been his little sister, and along with his disappointment he had to admit he felt a sense of relief. At the end of two days the guards had been dismissed and he forwarded the usual terse message of failure to Minas Tirith, then headed for the nearest tavern, desperately seeking something to distract him from his disappointment.

Now, hours later, he gazed morosely at the bottle before him. Nothing. No Estel. No word from Bron, either about her or Father. And it was all his fault. Elboron hadn't said it, but Eomund knew what he had been thinking, that day in the throne room. His fault. His words that had hurt Father, hurt him so much that he fell ill, the hurt driving him to do the unthinkable, strike out at the King, the man Eomund knew his father loved beyond measure. And Father's behavior frightening Estel so badly she had run away. All his fault. How often Mother had warned him of his tendency toward spitefulness, his malicious temper, his meanness that he had made little attempt to control once he left home. Now his vicious, thoughtless words were tearing apart his family. He tipped the bottle and drank until it was empty, then motioned for the girl to bring another, knowing it would not dull the hot coals of guilt burning in his stomach.

Much later the tavern keeper approached him, pointed out it was late, he was the only customer remaining, suggested perhaps he would like a room. Eomund shook his head. He had a room, across town in a better part of the city, so he tossed a handful of coins on the table and made his way unsteadily out the door, never noticing when the three men he passed on the corner fell in behind him. He walked along the waterfront, the cold wind in his face reviving him a bit and the smell of the sea strong in his nostrils as he tried to collect his thoughts. Where to go next? He had no idea, and that frightened him, as much as he hated to admit it. What would he do? He was running out of places to search. Should he go back to Minas Tirith? How could he face the King and say he had not found Estel? He stopped, leaned against a post that jutted up from the dock with a sudden, sickening thought. What if he never found her? What if she was dead? How could he face his father? What if Father never recovered from the loss? The nausea that rose up in him was not from all the drinking he had done.

"'Scuse me, your grace?" A hoarse voice from the shadows and he straightened slightly, turned, was caught totally unprepared for the huge fist that slammed into his stomach, doubling him over and then catching him in the face to send him reeling backwards, crashing into the side of a building. Angrily Eomund pushed himself up onto his feet, feeling the blood dripping from his nose, and reached for his sword, but strong arms reached from behind him, pinned his own to his side, while the fist came at him again, this time smashing into his ribs, his belly, the side of his head. He slid to his knees and the fist was replaced by booted feet that drove viciously into his ribs, forcing the breath from him as he tried to curl into a tight ball. He coughed and gagged as the wine came retching up, splattering into the dirt and another crushing blow knocked him down into his own vomit. The silence of the men as they struck him made them all the more terrifying, and they continued their silent assault until finally Eomund lay unmoving and they dragged him into a dusty alley. Quickly they stripped him of anything valuable, his sword, his knife, the coins in his purse. The silver ring his mother had given him for his twenty-first birthday was ripped from his finger, shredding the knuckle, along with the finely wrought neck chain he wore that matched his father's and each of his siblings. The King's credentials were torn apart and tossed into the dirt by one man as another pulled the expensive silk cloak and tunic from the unconscious body, making certain to slash the small badge marked with a white tree from the breast, and a third wrestled the costly leather boots from Eomund's feet. In moments they had taken what they wanted, and their goal accomplished, the men melted back into the darkness, leaving Eomund still and silent, bleeding in the dark.

The next thing Eomund knew hands were gripping him. Hard, calloused hands and he struck out at them, knocked them aside as he reached for his sword, only to find it gone. He was lying face down in the dirt, he realized and started to struggle to his feet when the hands grasped him again, harder this time and when he fought against them his own hands were suddenly wrenched behind him and he could feel a rough length of rope being knotted around his wrists. "What – Who are you?" he demanded, trying to open his eyes only to find one was swollen shut and the other nearly so. "Let me go, I'm here on the King's business." Guttural curses were his only answer and he was jerked to his feet and dragged a few steps down to the main street before being heaved into the back of what he guessed to be a wagon. From his one eye he could see a burly man with a large club, who motioned for him to sit down in the straw that lined the wagon bed. Eomund faced the man, turning his head in an attempt to see him better. "I am a representative from the King – "

"Quiet!" The man with the club was not who had spoken, but he pushed Eomund down in the straw and the wagon lurched forward. It stopped several more times and each time another passenger was added until the straw-filled bed was carrying more than twenty men, some looking half asleep, others clearly drunk, two others like Eomund, covered in blood and bruises. All of them had their hands tied and it slowly began to dawn on Eomund they were prisoners of some sort. He tried twice more to speak to the guard, being ignored once and receiving a sharp blow from the man's fist the second time that sent a lightning flash of pain through his head. Finally he settled back to wait. Peering around him he decided it was just after dawn, the sky pearl grey with a faint yellowish tinge to the east. The streets, what he could see of them, were nearly deserted, although he was clearly still in the less respectable part of the city.

As they traveled he took stock of his situation. He'd been robbed, he discovered. Everything was gone, even his boots, and he felt stupid and ashamed. He had let his own self-pity send him to the tavern and it had led to this. Robbed, beaten, and headed who knew where. His head ached from the alcohol and the beating, and the sun that crawled up across the sky increased the pounding until he could barely think straight.

The wagon pulled up before a small ramshackle building without windows and the passengers in the wagon were ordered out, their movements hurried and encouraged by prods from the man with the club. They were hustled into a ragged line and pushed through the doorway, passing through a cramped room holding desks and chairs, and out another door into a large, enclosed courtyard. There they were once more lined up and Eomund could see a heavyset man seated at a table in the middle of the courtyard. His round red face was topped by a shock of fluffy white hair giving him a rather genial appearance until one looked at his hard, knowing eyes. Behind him stood a small group of men; some appeared to be average businessmen, but there were others among them, a fierce hard-eyed man, and a few brawny men armed with thick clubs, who appeared to be rather less respectable. Eomund stood quietly, hoping the queasiness in his stomach and the throbbing in his head would ease soon.

The white-haired man had a pile of papers before him and he wrote for a moment, then looked up and motioned the first man in line toward him. The man who had escorted them in pushed him toward the table and Eomund watched as the heavy man spoke and the other man answered. He strained to hear but the men's voices were low, the prisoner only answering in mumbles and vague head movements. With a grim smile the heavyset man made a mark on his paper, turned it so the other man could add something, then nodded and watched as he was escorted away to stand before the businessmen.

The same routine was followed with several other men until finally Eomund's hands were untied and he was pushed forward and stood before the white-haired man. He tried to draw his aching body up straight and looked at the man through his agonizing headache and swollen eyes.

"Drunk in public." The man looked down at a paper before him. "Thirty days."

Eomund could only look at him in confusion. "Sir?"

The man looked down at the paper again. "Loitering. Thirty days."

Faint understanding began to form in Eomund's mind. Was this a court? Had he been arrested? But courts in Gondor were presided over by a nobleman chosen by the King! He was in Umbar, true, but it was technically under Gondor's rule, surely this man was not the sort to be given that kind of authority. He glanced around him. Nor was this place one where a representative of Gondor's King would be quartered. He scowled at the red face before him as faint tendrils of understanding began to form in his mind. This must be one of the self-proclaimed magistrates he had heard rumors about; a man who controlled a part of the city, often with an iron hand. His word was law on the streets in his district, and even the King's men were hard-pressed to bring order to those areas held by some of the more powerful men, those who could muster their own form of an army in the seedier sections of the city. Still, Eomund could not imagine they would want to endanger themselves by interfering with an emissary of the King. He straightened as much as he could and faced the man.

"Sir, I am here on business for King Elessar of Gondor – "

"Gondor's a long way from here." The heavyset man gave him a scathing glance and looked down at his paper once more. "Public nuisance. Thirty days. How do you plead?"

It was a court! Or at least the representation of one in this lawless sector of Umbar. And he was being tried and sentenced, Eomund realized. He took a step forward only to be forced back by the man with the club. "I am here on the King's business!" he said again, glaring at the man behind the table, who merely shrugged. Eomund pulled away from the guard. "I have papers – " he stopped, realized he had nothing. His shoulders slumped. "If you will just contact the governor's office," he said tiredly. "They will vouch for me."

"The governor's office!" The white-haired man looked at the men behind him and they all laughed. "We don't do a lot of business with them."

Eomund could feel rage welling up in him. "I am sent by the King!" he said furiously, stepping toward the table again. "I am here on his request." A burly guard squeezed his hand around Eomund's arm and jerked him back from the table while the heavyset man looked bored. "Drunk in public, loitering, public nuisance. Thirty days each, that's ninety days. Or can you pay the fine?" The look in his face and the smile that played about his mouth said he knew the answer. Eomund glared at him.

"I was robbed, I have no money. If you will contact the governor's office – "

"Ninety days." The man signed the paper before him and turned it toward Eomund. "Your signature, sir."

Eomund laughed scornfully. "I'm not signing that. This is not a legitimate court and I refuse to sign. Or pay for that matter. I demand you take me to the governor's office."

The other man made a face that indicated he had little interest in Eomund's demands. "Ninety days, then." He nodded to the guard, who wrapped thick fingers around Eomund's, forced the quill between them and moved his arm so that a sloppy X was scrawled across the page. As soon as Eomund was released he reached out to snatch the paper, but the white-haired man was quicker and he pulled it across the table, his eyes narrowing as Eomund lunged at him.

"This is not a proper court," Eomund snarled. "You are not acting on the King's behalf and I will see to it that you are held accountable. You will –" The club caught him across the back of the head, knocking him to his knees and he fell forward, sliding off the edge of the table into the dirt, feeling the earth beneath him lurch and spin. Reaching out blindly he flailed about, searching for something to hold onto, trying to get his feet under him and groaning. "My father is the Steward of Gondor," he said in a desperate voice. "I am here on the King's business."

The white-haired man held up a hand, halting the next stroke of the club in mid-air. He looked down at the young man on his knees in the dust and then at his companions behind him. "His father is the Steward of Gondor," he said in an impressed voice. "He is here on the King's business." There was silence as they looked at each other; then they burst out in laughter and the man's hand made a motion that brought the club down across Eomund's head, sending him into oblivion.

* * *

Motion. The easy, rocking motion of a ship on water. Eomund could feel it beneath him and he lay still, letting the familiar movement sooth his aching head and muscles. He could hear men moving about him, the groan of the ship's timbers and the sound of the sails snapping above him. With a moan he blinked his eyes open, found himself lying on the deck of a ship, looking up at an old man with black hair and no teeth in his wide smile.

"You're awake, then?" He reached down and hauled Eomund to his feet, steadying him when he appeared to be ready to collapse once more. "Here, here, hold on." Moving Eomund's hand he wrapped it around a nearby rail. Eomund clutched at the railing, realized he was going to be sick and leaned over to empty his stomach into the blue water below him. There wasn't much and he shook as the dry heaves convulsed him and the old man patted his arm sympathetically. "Not used to the water, eh? Takes some practice."

"It's not that," Eomund grimaced, found even talking in a whisper sent the pain roaring through his skull. "They nearly cracked my head open."

The old man grinned in agreement. "That they did, lad. You've got a lump there the size of my fist, that's for sure."

Eomund let his head rest against the railing and felt the breeze drying the sweat on his face. It was a salt breeze, they were on the sea. He forced his head up and looked around to find he was on a small ship, apparently some sort of merchant transport, the deck was crammed with boxes and barrels of various types, crates and bundles and even several small cages full of chickens and goats. "Where am I?" His voice sounded weak and shaky.

"Somewhere between Umbar and Belfalas," said the old man cheerfully. "The _Crescent Moon_, which is the name of this fine ship, makes her run along the coast and upstream as far as Pelargir."

"Pelargir!" Eomund felt hopeful. If he could make it home…

"That's the turnaround of our route, last stop before we head back towards Umbar. We won't be there for a few weeks."

"Oh." Eomund's hopes evaporated. "What happened?" he asked tiredly. "How did I get here?"

"They carried you onto the ship, if that's what you mean." The old man cackled at the memory, then suddenly sobered. "If you mean how did you fall into the hands of Fat Seldaan, then I'm guessing you either got drunk, or someone knocked you in the head, robbed you and left you in the street."

"Or both." Eomund gingerly rubbed his head. "Who is Fat Seldan?" He looked at his companion through narrowed eyes. "And who are you?"

"Malvegil's my name, but most just call me Mal." Pale blue eyes crinkled up in a smile that Eomund vaguely returned. "And Fat Seldan – he's the man who sold you to Captain Radonath."

"Sold!?" The outburst brought fresh shimmers of light before Eomund's vision.

"Sold." Mal saw the horror on the younger man's face and tried to reassure him. "Not permanent, lad, not permanent. Just until your debt is paid off."

"My debt." Eomund's mouth twisted grimly. "An illegal debt, trumped up by an illegal court."

Mal shrugged. "Still, here you are, so that doesn't much matter, now does it?" He pointed his chin toward a tall, fierce-looking man with long dark hair standing at the front of the ship and Eomund recognized him from the courtyard. "Captain, there, he needed some extra hands. He paid for four men for ninety days, and you are one of them. Just do your time, boy, and you'll be released at the end."

Eomund stared at the captain, who stared balefully back before turning his face back toward the water ahead of them. "But it's not right. It's not a real court. You can't just arrest people and sell them into slavery." He spoke loudly enough that nearby crew members heard him and he got frightened looks from some of them, the other conscripts, he assumed.

"Service, lad, they call it service. Timed service."

"I don't care what they call it. It's not legal."

Mal nodded his head in agreement and cackled again. "You're right, lad, you're right. But," he swept his hand around them to indicate the empty sea. "Here you are."

The truth of the old man's words stung Eomund and he released his hold on the railing and stood up cautiously to see if the nausea was bearable. "Ninety days! I don't have ninety days. I am on official business for the King of Gondor." He saw Mal's skeptical glance and gave him an exasperated look. "I am! I am searching for a young girl."

"Ah, aren't we all?" Mal sighed with longing, angering Eomund.

"No, I'm looking for my sister, she is missing."

"Your sister?"

"She ran away from home, and I am looking for her, on the King's orders."

Mal's skepticism only increased. "Why would the King of Gondor care about your sister?"

Eomund looked down at his filthy breeches and shirt, his bare feet, could smell his own vomit and sweat. "My father is the Steward of Gondor," he said reluctantly.

A peal of laughter from the toothless mouth let Eomund know what his companion thought of his words. A few others nearby who heard joined in the laughter.

"The Steward of Gondor." Mal bowed low before him. "Pleased to meet you, my lord."

Eomund flushed. "It's true." He could tell Mal didn't believe him, and why should he? Why would the Steward of Gondor's son be picked up drunk in Umbar and sentenced to "timed service?" He chewed his lip sourly, decided to not waste time trying to prove his claim to the old man, and merely repeated his earlier statement. "I have been ordered by the King to find my sister."

Mal nodded seriously while his eyes twinkled. The boy was the best entertainment he had had in months! "And she is in Umbar?"

"I don't know where she is!" Eomund shouted at him, instantly regretting it as the pounding in his head increased. "She ran away from home," he continued in a quieter voice. "That's why I'm looking for her!"

"Ran away?" The old man's eyebrows lifted as if waiting for the rest of the story and Eomund looked away. How to explain the whole messy situation? "My brother - I – " He stopped, shook his head carefully. "It doesn't matter. My sister is gone, my father is ill – "

"Your father, the Steward?" Eomund ignored the jibe.

"And I am under orders to find her. I cannot stay here for ninety days. I will speak to the Captain."

Instantly Mal's face was tense. "Oh, no, no, lad, you won't. He's a hard one. You don't want to get on his bad side. Just stay out of his way, and do your time, and you'll be all right."

Eomund ignored the man's words and started across the deck, the pounding in his head causing his usual easy balance on a ship to desert him. "Captain?" He called up to the dark-headed man. "I need to speak with you." He ignored Mal's restraining arm. "Captain? I need off this ship, I am on business for the King of Gondor." Eomund placed one bare foot on the steps that led to the upper deck where the captain stood.

"Bothlan." The name was spoken quietly and instantly a huge man appeared by the Captain's side. He wore no shirt, and his chest and arms were hugely muscled and he stood on legs like tree trunks. Even his shaved head appeared muscled. Now he crossed his arms and gave Eomund a warning look. Eomund hesitated, but then called up again. "Captain!"

"Bothlan, five stripes." The words were spoken in a bored tone, the captain never even turning around. In seconds Eomund was helpless in the grasp of the huge Bothlan, his bruised body held firmly in the gigantic hands as he was pushed up against one of the ship's masts. He struggled futilely; saw the pitying looks from the crew as his face was pressed against the rough wood.

"Wait, I only wanted to speak to him." A painful cry was wrenched from him as his arms were wrapped around the mast and tied tightly by another crewman. Bothlan grasped the neck of his shirt and gave a sharp tug, tearing the garment from him and exposing his back with its fresh bruises. A strange, soft, snapping sound came to Eomund's ears but he could not move his head, so he could not see the flexible wooden rod that Bothlan raised and brought slashing down across his back. The captain of the _Crescent Moon_ did not use a whip to discipline his men. A whip ripped the flesh from a man, tore him apart, and he either spent the next week in his bunk useless or he died. The rod was Captain Radonath's choice, a slim wooden shaft that left no doubt in a man's mind he had been punished, but did not keep him from his duty.

Eomund's initial sensation was the biting pain of the blow as it struck him, raising a long red welt across his shoulders. He grunted in surprise and pain and felt the sting begin to radiate across his body just as the second blow fell. The thin cane slashed down across his back and the pain doubled, tripled, and Eomund felt his legs tremble as a deep, burning ache slowly spread through every part of him. The rest of the ordered punishment followed swiftly, each stroke leaving a ghastly swollen weal across Eomund's skin and increasing the pain to a horrendous level. The fifth stroke opened up a gash across his right shoulder and he could feel the blood begin to trickle down his shoulder blade, warm and sticky. "Five stripes, Captain." Bothlan's voice was without emotion as he reached up and cut the rope that held Eomund to the mast. He sagged to his knees, felt Mal slip an arm under him, lift him to his feet.

"On your feet, boy," the old man hissed. "Or he'll whip you again for slacking off." Eomund gritted his teeth, forced himself upright. His blue eyes were snapping with fury.

"I am on the King's business," he said and unevenly pushed himself away from Mal. "I cannot stay here for ninety days!" He turned back toward the front of the ship. "Captain, I need to – "

"Bothlan. Five stripes." Again the words were spoken in a soft tone, as if the speaker were quite uninterested in whether or not his orders were followed. Bothlan instantly started toward Eomund.

This time Eomund fought hard, did everything in his power to escape the larger man's grasp. He twisted and struggled and bit, but in the end he was crushed against the mast once more, his arms pulled tight and tied with the rough rope. "I am sent by the King of Gondor!" he shouted angrily as Bothlan picked up the rod. At his words the Captain turned slightly and looked down at the troublemaker, noting the seething anger in the blue eyes. "Wait, Bothlan." The first mate paused and the Captain studied Eomund. "Gondor?" Eomund nodded and the black-haired man gave him a crooked, unamused smile. "Seven stripes, instead."

When he was cut down this time, Eomund fell nearly senseless to the deck, the bloody stripes vivid across his shoulders and back as he lay there retching and groaning. The old man Mal was ordered to revive him and he did so, splashing cold sea water in Eomund's face until he spluttered into awareness, thrashing and flailing while the rest of the crew hustled around the two of them, tending to their duties.

"Easy, easy now." Mal said, holding him steady. "I told you, lad. He's a mean one. And he hates Gondor. You're already in enough trouble. Just stay quiet and stay out of his way." He poured some of the salty water across the welts and Eomund gasped and jerked away.

"I am under the King's order!" His voice was a sob of rage and frustration. "I am searching for my sister! The King has charged me with finding her." He looked up into Mal's sympathetic face. "I have to find her," he said doggedly. "My father is ill and if I do not find her I cannot go back." He painfully got to his feet and turned toward the front of the ship, horrifying Mal, who hurried forward to step in front of him.

"No, lad, no." He pulled at Eomund's arm. "Don't do it, I'm begging you." Eomund said nothing as he slowly maneuvered Mal out of his path and headed for the bow. Captain Radonath watched him come, his dark eyes unreadable as the younger man approached.

"I am on the King's business." Eomund said with determination, his voice steady even as he stood straight with difficulty. The Captain's eyes shifted to his first mate.

"Bothlan. Ten more stripes for Gondor." The first mate nodded grimly and came for Eomund.

They cut him down afterward and Mal had two others carry the young man down to his own bunk, deep in the fetid depths of the ship, where he washed the blood from his back and waited for him to awaken, shaking his head in both exasperation and admiration of his stubbornness. "If he doesn't kill you, boy," he said softly as he washed the bloody welts, "I may end up liking you."

* * *

Eomund's knowledge of the sea and sailing ships served him well, and ultimately kept him from at least some punishment. It was only a few days before the sharp eyes of the first mate had seen that the Gondorian was no stranger to a ship and he had quietly reported as much to his fierce captain. Eomund could read the wind and the water, he understood the workings of the sails and not only was he capable of doing his duties, he usually had seen what they should be well before the order was given. The captain didn't speak to him, nor the first mate, but the word was passed to the officer who headed his watch and gradually, acknowledging his skill and experience, Eomund was given further duties and responsibilities, and he accepted them readily.

But he could not accept his situation, and whenever the captain appeared on deck, within minutes Eomund would be once again attempting to speak to the hard-faced man, trying to convince him of his identity, persuade him that forcing his service was not tolerable. The dark eyes of Captain Radonath never once rested on his new man; he would only look at his first mate and pronounce the punishment to be handed out and the huge Bothlan would pin Eomund helplessly against the mast until his arms were tied and then reach for the slim wooden rod.

By the end of his first month of 'timed service', Eomund had taken 68 stripes, and while many of the welts left by the rod healed quickly and cleanly, enough of the blows broke the skin that his back and shoulders were now criss-crossed with dull red scars and roughened with scar tissue and Eomund of Gondor was beginning to learn to hold his temper, and his tongue.

* * *

"This puts you over 70," Mal observed with a shake of his head as he smeared a thin greasy salve across the fresh welts on Eomund's shoulders. "Six stripes this time! Why don't you keep quiet?

Eomund grunted from where he lay on his bunk, his head pillowed in his arms as Mal rubbed the ointment into the broken skin. "All I said was I wanted to speak to the captain."

The old man gave him a wry grin. "Oh, that's all?" He gave a gentle slap to the muscular back beneath his hands and wiped his palms on his own filthy breeches, closed the tin of ointment and shoved it back into the small leather sack that held all his worldly possessions. Sitting back on his heels he studied the young man in front of him. Eomund was tanned from days in the sun, his long black hair pulled into a neat braid that hung down his back, black lashes framing dark blue eyes. Eyes that had lost some their arrogant gleam in the five weeks that he had been on board the _Crescent Moon_. Now the Gondorian straightened, stretched and looked at Mal.

"I am on the King's business –"

Mal quickly held up his hands as if to fend off a blow. "I know, I know." He stood up, offered a hand to Eomund, who refused and eased himself upright.

"All I want is to talk to him, explain why I should not be here, and cannot stay," Eomund said in a tired voice. He realized his continued attempts to speak to the captain only resulted in his continued attentions from Bothlan and the wooden rod but the idea of giving in and just serving his time went against his nature and he had not been able to bring himself to do it yet

"He doesn't want to talk to you, Gondor, why can't you understand that?" Mal shook his head at him and Eomund hunched over his knees and looked down at the deck.

Gondor. They all called him that, not by his name, and he could almost hear the sneer in most of their voices. He had asked Mal about it one night and the elderly sailor had leaned back in his bunk and looked at Eomund with sympathy.

"Lots of folks in Umbar hate Gondor," he had said slowly, as if lecturing a small child. "Because of the war. Most people lost someone in the war, a father, a brother, a friend." He'd clasped his hands across his knees and nodded his head up, toward the upper decks. "Captain lost all three, his father, his two older brothers, his best friend." Mal's face was grim. "That's why he hates Gondor; and you."

"The war?" Eomund had made an annoyed sound. "But why hate me? That was before I was born! I can't do anything about that."

Mal shrugged his shoulders. "People who are grieving do odd things. Grief can poison a man, change him. In some cases it destroys him, just eats away at him until he's only a shell of what he was. In others, it turns him vicious, violent, capable of saying and doing unbelievably cruel things." The old man was looking down at his hands across his knees as he spoke, didn't see Eomund's face blanch at his words.

"So, does that excuse him? He is still grieving? Even after almost thirty years?" Eomund's voice was soft, but Mal could hear the pain in it.

"Excuse him? No, lad, course not." He shrugged and looked at Eomund questioningly. "But it's who he is, now. He doesn't know any other way to be. How long would you grieve for them, your father? Your brothers?" There had been a long silence and Mal had seen a strange expression come over the younger man's face.

"The rest of my life," Eomund had said finally, his voice ragged, and the old sailor hadn't been sure but it looked as if the younger man brushed a tear away before he had raised his eyes.

Now, remembering that conversation, Eomund arched his sore shoulders and looked up at Mal. "But why won't he even let me talk to him?"

Mal smiled his toothless smile. "Because if he lets you talk, Gondor, he might have to listen. And if he listens, he might find out you are just human, like him. And he can't have that." With a cynical sigh Mal sat back down on his bunk and looked across the small space at Eomund. "He has spent his entire life hating Gondor, he can't take the chance of finding out you're just another man."

Eomund pondered Mal's words. He wouldn't call the old man a friend, he had no friends on this ship, the other crew members kept clear of him, most simply fearful that showing friendship toward the man the captain clearly despised might lead them to share his fate. But Mal, whether from true affection or mere curiosity, talked to him, treated him kindly, offered information and advice. It was Mal who had told Eomund that in the first month he had received more lashes than the rest of the crew combined. "Doing the captain a favor, you are," he had cackled in amusement. "The others are terrified, seeing how little it takes to get you tied up to the mast."

Eomund had not shared in the laughter then, and the memory still rankled. He frowned now at his companion. "I am on the King's business." He had said the words so often they had begun to lose their importance even to him.

Mal cocked his head at the younger man. "Listen to me, boy." He spoke slowly, trying to give his words more weight. "You are nearly halfway through your time. Be patient, because you are not going to get to talk to the captain, and you are not getting off this ship. Keep your head down and keep quiet." Eomund made no promises, but he mulled over the old sailor's words, turning them over in his mind.

* * *

He only managed to keep quiet for two days, for on the third morning, he sighted the outline of Pelargir. He could hardly believe the thrill that went through him when he saw the familiar outline of the city against the morning sky. He pointed out various buildings and landmarks to Mal as the ship drew closer and the old man, who had seen Pelargir countless times, indulged him and nodded appreciatively.

"You can almost see my house," said Eomund, pointing toward a clutch of buildings on a hillside that rose up from the harbor. "It's there, about halfway up. It's not very big, but it's mine. I bought it last summer." He was silent as he gazed at the city, then abruptly turned from the rail. Immediately Mal felt a twinge of fear.

"Don't do it, boy," he pleaded, following Eomund's decisive steps along the deck. "He won't listen."

"This is my home," said Eomund. "There are people here who know me, who can vouch for me. He can even send a guard along. I'm an officer in the Royal Navy of Gondor, Mal! My Captain will – "

"Gondor, your Captain is here," Mal said softly. "On the _Crescent Moon_, and he doesn't care." The aged sailor hurried along behind him. "He just wants you to do your job." He fell silent as they reached the steps leading to the upper deck. As if he had been expecting him, Captain Radonath was waiting for Eomund. Beside him Bothlan stood, meaty arms crossed over his equally muscular chest.

"Captain." There was the slightest quaver in Eomund's voice no matter how hard he tried to steady it. He gently shrugged Mal's restraining hand from his shoulder. "Pelargir is my home – "

Mal watched in amazement as the Captain did something he had never seen him do with a man on timed service. He held up a warning finger toward Eomund. "Not another word, Gondor," he said quietly. Even Eomund was put off stride by being directly addressed by the man who until now had acted as though he could see through him. He stopped for a moment, then plowed ahead stubbornly.

"It is my home city, Captain. I have people here, superior officers, who can assure you of who I am, pay my fines, whatever you wish."

The Captain stared at Eomund with unreadable, black eyes, then shifted his gaze to the rapidly approaching city. They would arrive in the harbor by noon. He turned to Bothlan. "Twenty-five stripes," he said.

Mal gasped and saw Eomund pale, saw him step back as Bothlan descended the steps. "No, no," he said in disbelief as the gigantic man reached for him. "This is my home!" He struggled as Bothlan clamped iron-hard hands around his wrists and pulled him toward the mast and he began to resist in earnest, jerking and twisting in every direction, trying to escape from the first mate's strong grasp. "Captain!" he called up to the hard-eyed man again. "I have friends here who will gladly identify me!"

There was no reaction, it was as if he had not spoken at all. Eomund frantically struggled against Bothlan. "I am on the King's business!" he cried out as he was callously pushed up against the mast and the first mate signaled to a crewman who leaped forward to tie his hands. "NO! You must release me! I am sent by the King of Gondor!" Eomund's words were a howl and the captain gave Bothlan a barely visible signal. Looking about him the huge man fixed his eye on a bundle of sails needing mending that was piled on the deck. As the chosen crewman finished tying Eomund's hands the first mate searched through the pile of dirty canvas. Finding a small piece of cloth he balled it up and shoved it into Eomund's mouth, effectively silencing him, then retrieved the slim wooden rod from its place above the main cabin door and swished it through the air once.

Mal saw the fury and confusion in Eomund's eyes turn to panic, as the first stroke landed. He pulled and tugged at the rope holding him in a hopeless attempt to loosen the tight knots, the muscles on his arms standing out as he put all his strength into the motion, the coarse rope cutting into his wrists until the blood dripped from them, but the knots held and the rod kept swishing through the air, and Mal saw the proud blue eyes close for a moment and a sob come past the filthy gag before Eomund mastered himself, swallowed back the sound and opened his eyes to stare at the captain in disbelief, unable to comprehend the reason for either his punishment or its severity.

Eomund watched the captain as long as he could while the whistling strokes of the rod were steadily counted off by Bothlan, even though he stayed turned away from him, watching the city draw nearer. He never turned around, but Eomund kept his eyes locked on him, thinking of Mal's words about how a grief could destroy a man, or turn him into a vicious, evil thing, and he hated the captain and wondered if it pleased him in some dark way to hurt another, if it somehow assuaged his grief for a few moments and suddenly the memory of his words to his father swam before him and in the few seconds between the previous stroke of the rod and the next Eomund understood.

He understood how his grief had begun to twist him, changing his sadness into cruelty, so that wounding another, his father, even with words, had been pleasing, and that because of his words his father's grief was destroying him, and Eomund cried out, not from the pain of the stripes, although that agony was already crawling along his spine and across his shoulders, but from the anguish that suddenly filled his heart and he was sick and saddened and shaking as the next stroke of the rod came down upon him.

Before him he saw the city of Pelargir, his city, come closer and closer, and the blows kept raining down, and he could feel awareness leaving him as the pain rose up like a flood and it covered him, smothered him, choked him, until at last his eyes rolled back and he hung senseless from the mast and still the rod continued to fall across his limp form as Bothlan counted off the stripes. When he delivered the last one he slashed through the ropes with a long knife and jerked his head toward Mal. "Take him."

The old sailor motioned for another man to help and they gently lifted Eomund's bleeding body and carried him down below to his bunk, where Mal tenderly bathed the torn flesh of his back. The wounds from three days ago had scarcely healed, and the punishing strokes Bothlan had landed today had laid open Eomund's back in several places, while the bruises that were already appearing were turning it into a livid mass of black and purple and green. Mal sucked his lips in around his toothless gums and looked down at the still face as he tended to him. "Ah, lad, don't let him kill you." He brushed Eomund's dark hair away from the bloody cuts in an almost gentle motion. "Don't let him kill you."

Eomund lay unconscious the rest of the morning, awakening in the afternoon to spend the night and all the next day in his bunk on his belly, sweaty and feverish and sick with the pain, while Mal looked after him. When the fever broke the next evening he staggered up onto the deck in the fading red light of the sunset to find the _Crescent Moon's_ business in Pelargir had long been concluded and they were far out to sea once more, and he laid his head on the railing at the back of the ship and he wept.

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

Again - Thanks for beta'ing - PFaz, Clairon and Catherine Maria (pinch-hitter!) 


	7. A Discovery

**Note: **Because I have been neglecting my real life, you get two chapters at once.

* * *

Chapter 7 – A Discovery:

* * *

Estel pulled the heavy breastplate up higher on her lap and ran the rag across the hammered bronze and leather as if it were possible to increase the sheen. She had already spent an hour on it, lovingly working the rag into every crevice and cranny and the armor shone in the firelight. She turned it over in her hands, loving the feel it in her hands and sniffing at the faint aroma that emanated from it; leather and Feorl. From the corner of her eye she watched as the Rider pulled off his sweaty shirt and took the extra water skin to pour over his head, soaking his dark blond hair and letting it run down across his bare chest, his skin glistening in the orange light of the fire as the water trickled across his muscles and Estel quickly looked away.

She was happy, happier than she had been in months; and she was miserable. She loved being part of the Rohirric company, loved galloping across the plains with Feorl, singing the ancient songs of battle and blood, and a part of her felt as if she had been born for it. Born to hold a sword and sit a horse and ride in search of the enemy. But another part of her missed home, more and more as the weeks went by, so much so that she had cried herself to sleep on more than one occasion recently, silently letting the tears run down her cheeks and fall into her blankets. She missed Alasse and thought of her sister as she carefully put the breastplate back in its usual place in Feorl's and her tent and she suddenly wanted to talk to her, tell her how handsome Feorl was, and how funny, how kind. She wondered for a moment about her mother, how she was, and if her father was any better. Returning to the fire she sat down with a sigh.

"You're very serious." Feorl gave her a nudge as he sat down beside her, wiping at his wet torso and pulling on his cleanest shirt. She shrugged and quickly pulled a chunk of meat from the hare roasting above the fire, handing half of the greasy piece to him. He took a bite and watched her, chewing thoughtfully, and she looked away.

"Thinking of home," he said quietly, knew he had guessed correctly when Stellan's eyes grew wide and he shook his head vehemently.

"No."

Feorl gave him a disbelieving grunt and let the matter drop. It was a closed subject with the boy, that had become quite evident and after more than a month Feorl still made prying remarks mostly out of habit, not really expecting an answer. The Rider leaned back and stretched his legs out before the fire, enjoying the quiet evening. They were still riding the northern borders and still no signs of orcs. No fresh signs, at least. There had been the occasional abandoned camp but nothing to cause any worry. Still, Feorl did not let his guard drop too much. The mountain passes had room to hold orcs by the thousands and it was best to be wary. Wulffon still had them riding with pickets and posted a guard every night.

Beside him he saw Stellan relax when no more questions came about home and family and Feorl smiled as he saw him pull out the sword he had given him and begin to polish it, rubbing the rag across the metal and checking the edge for any nicks or dents. The boy loved the sword and Feorl was glad he had given it to him, wanted him to have something of his own that he valued. Wanted him to be happy, he admitted to himself and felt slightly annoyed that he was letting the boy's happiness become so important to him. Stellan was good with a blade, and well educated, but he was still a boy, eager for approval and acceptance, and Feorl, remembering the bruises on his cheek that night at the tavern, had cared for him and worried about him, and now he was both flattered and troubled by Stellan's affection. If he just weren't so young, he thought. Too young. When they got back to Rohan he would insist he stay behind next time, stay safe in Edoras until he was older, and while he knew Stellan would be furious and Feorl would miss his company, he would insist. He did not want to see him spitted on some orc's lance before he could even grow a beard. Feorl sighed and shifted before the fire, letting the warmth lull him to sleep as he made his plans.

* * *

The orcs came boiling out of the small valley like angry bees from a hive, more than a dozen of them, and that number would not have presented a problem had the entire eored been picking its way along the valley floor. But the entire eored was not, instead it was merely the six men who had been sent ahead as pickets, while the remainder of the company followed further back. Six men, and a boy, and they were spread out in a ragged line across the meadow on the valley floor. Feorl had not thought to order Stellan to stay behind, they had not seen a single orc in the weeks they had been patrolling, and so when Stellan had trotted his horse behind Feorl he had merely grinned at the boy and told him to stay to his left. 

Now, however, he had lost sight of him and there was no time to look around for the sturdy figure with dark hair as a black-fletched arrow buried itself in his horse's throat and Feorl felt the animal lurch and begin to fall. He felt sick as the horse collapsed, his father had given it to him as a gift five years ago when Feorl had become a Rider, and he loved it with the whole-hearted love the Rohirrim lavished on all their mounts. But there was no time to mourn the animal's loss. Knowing instinctively the horse was already dying, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, managing to stay upright and leaped onto the short grass beneath him as the horse crumpled to the ground and a wiry orc dressed in a half-rotten leather breastplate charged him.

He slashed with his sword only to have his movement parried by the orc, the force of his blow shaken and stopped by the monster's own black blade. With an evil grin the orc opened its mouth and bellowed a challenge at him, saliva dripping from its yellow fangs and Feorl raised his sword again and stepped forward. The orc raised its sword and charged him, screeching, and he met it, the blades flashing in the sunlight and ringing sharply as they crashed together, were pulled back and crashed again.

Behind him Feorl could hear the sounds of his comrades as they fought their own battles and for just a moment his concern for Stellan's whereabouts distracted him, and the orc caught him off guard, managed to slide the edge of his wicked blade along the man's side. Feorl grunted and jerked as he felt the metal drag across his skin and the blood spring up, begin to run down his side and soak into his leather breeches. He heard the orc's howl of triumph, knew he could use it against him and pretended to lurch to the side, bent over the wound and the orc stepped forward to deliver the death blow. Feorl fell to his knees, rolled and was suddenly at the orc's feet, much closer than the creature had planned and the Rider swept his sword up from the ground and slashed across the leathery skin above him. He arced the blade between the orc's legs and into his belly and the guttural scream that left its throat as the orc fell, dying, brought a smile to Feorl's face as he struggled to his feet and looked around him

Three other Riders had also been unhorsed, and Feorl could see another horse, only slightly injured, leaping and bucking in response to the pain of its wound and heading toward a small copse of trees nearby. Two orcs were down, in addition to the one he had killed, and as he stood up the sound of thundering hooves could be heard and felt and in seconds the rest of the eored had arrived in the valley and the remaining orcs were cut down by flashing swords.

Feorl looked around him anxiously, scanning the Riders for a dark-headed figure on a bay gelding and found nothing, and he felt the faint stirrings of worry increase. A Rider trotted his horse up to him and dismounted, pulling off his helmet. "You're wounded, Feorl," he said in surprise, reaching out a hand towards the blood-stained breeches.

"It's nothing," said Feorl, pressing a hand to his side and frowning at the blood that came away. He searched the valley again, but saw only Rohirrim, their blond heads catching the sunshine as they piled up the dead orcs and caught the loose horses, their voices calling cheerfully across to one another. With a worried look Feorl turned to the man who had just arrived. "Have you seen Stellan? The black-haired boy who rides with me?"

"Stellan? No." The Rider looked around them. "He's not here?" Feorl shook his head and his fear increased. Where could he be? He limped over to his horse, now lying dead in the grass and he patted the soft ears for the last time as his eyes roved across the valley once more.

"Stellan! Stellan!" He bellowed the name but no dark head suddenly appeared, no broad face with clear grey eyes, and Feorl could feel his worry increase, begin to turn into panic. He started across the valley, cursing himself. How could he have been so stupid, letting the boy ride along? He'd known he was too young, untried, and yet his company had been pleasant and Feorl had let himself be fooled into thinking they were safe, when he KNEW they were not. He moved painfully along the edge of the valley, searching clumps of grass, breaking up knots of Rohirrim where they stood about but found nothing. No one had seen the boy since he had ridden off behind Feorl when he was assigned picket duty. Feorl could feel his stomach twisting as he trudged along, holding his side with his hand and looked around him once more.

A few Riders had been injured and he watched as their wounds were bound up, while further behind them another man sadly slit the throat of a badly wounded horse, the animal's squeals of pain slowly diminishing as it struggled briefly then sank to the ground. Feorl stopped, a thought slowly coming into his head, and he turned to the small group of trees on his right.

Yes! His heart leaped. The wounded horse he had seen heading for the trees was a bay gelding and it still stood there, head down in misery, blood trickling down its leg. Stellan's horse! He hurriedly limped toward the trees, gasping as the numbness of shock started to wear off and the deep cut began to burn and sting. The grove was made up of less than a score of small trees, none bigger around than Feorl's arm, and he only took a few steps into the slight shade they afforded before he saw it. An orc body, tall and broad and sprawled face down in the grass beside one of the larger trees. And from beneath the muscled, leather-clad thigh emerged a small booted foot.

With a cry Feorl ran forward, his own injury forgotten, and shoved the orc sideways, groaning with the effort needed to dislodge the heavy body. When it finally rolled over Feorl noted Stellan's sword buried to the hilt in its ribs even as he reached for the still, pale face beneath him on the ground.

"Stellan! Stellan!" Feorl patted the boy's cheek gently as he eyed the orc blade that protruded from his shoulder. Grey eyes blinked open and Stellan moaned softly and Feorl felt a great surge of relief. "Lie still," he ordered softly. "Let me see where you're hurt." He gently moved his hands down across the young body, finding to his amazement no broken bones or any other injuries. Black orc blood soaked Stellan's breeches, but the only red was that welling around the blade buried in his shoulder.

"I killed it." Stellan's voice was faint but Feorl could hear the pride and he grinned with pleasure and smoothed back the dark hair.

"Yes, you did. Well done."

"I want its sword."

"You shall have it." As he spoke Feorl pulled out his knife and enlarged the cut in the leather jerkin Stellan wore, then tore the cloth of his tunic to inspect the point of entry and bit back a curse. The large blade had shattered the collarbone upon entry, the splintered edges of the pale bones gleaming through the blood, and then been driven through flesh and bone as the collapse of the heavy orc body thrust its sword forward with tremendous power. Just as he had feared, it was now lodged deeply in the dirt, pinning the boy to the ground while the blood that ran from the wound soaked the earth and turned it into a gory mud. He would have to pull it loose and clean as much of the soil from it as he could before drawing it back through the wound. Not only would it be more painful, but the chances of infection had suddenly doubled. Beneath his hand Stellan gave a small whimper.

"It hurts."

Feorl laid a hand across the pale forehead. "I know. It's stuck in the ground; I'll have to pull it out, get ready." He saw him tense as he grasped his shoulder, one hand around the blade and began pulling with a steady pressure, lifting the boy's upper body away from the ground, letting it slide a little further up the blade. Stellan gasped and jerked slightly and Feorl worked one knee under his shoulder and reached for his knife again, using the sharp edge to scrape away at the soil that held the blade. It took a few moments before the sword came free of the earth and mud and he could ease Stellan back down to the ground and roll him carefully onto his side. He saw the tear stains across the boy's cheeks but said nothing. There was little else to be done except get it out and he knew it hurt dreadfully. Stellan was breathing in short little gasps and his eyes were closed but as Feorl scraped the dirt from the metal that protruded from his back he opened them and looked up at him.

"I lied to you," he said quietly.

Feorl was only half listening, his mind intent on removing as much of the dirt from the blade as possible before pulling it back through the wound. "Shh, it doesn't matter," he said. He wiped the edge of the sword on a piece of Stellan's tunic he had torn loose and looked down at him. "I'll do it fast." The boy nodded and Feorl rolled him onto his back again as best as he could and stood, pressing a careful boot into his shoulder just below the entry wound and grasped the large hilt. The grey eyes that looked up into his were full of pain and trust and Feorl hoped he was worthy of it as he gave a tremendous jerk and pulled the blade out, feeling the broken collarbone grinding across the metal as he did, feeling Stellan arch up beneath his foot and cry out in agony before he fainted and went limp in the grass. Tossing the orc blade aside Feorl quickly knelt again and inspected the wound, his fingers carefully moving through the bloody gash, finding the sharp ends of the bones but nothing else. He let it bleed, hoping it might flush out some of the dirt that had been left there by the sword's backward movement, and bent to gather the boy up into his arms. Suddenly remembering, he turned and pulled Stellan's sword from the orc body and picked up the orc's blade, shoving both of them alongside his own sword in his belt, then lifted the unconscious boy and staggered out of the trees toward the valley and the rest of the eored.

Wulffon saw him coming, had been looking for him, and quickly ran across the grassy field to meet him, his face registering shock and dismay when he saw who Feorl was carrying.

"He killed one," Feorl grunted as he carried Stellan to where the other wounded were being cared for. Wulffon grinned. "Really?" His grin twisted into a frown, turning his scarred lip into a grotesque leer when he saw the blood on Stellan as Feorl gently deposited his burden on the ground. Theilon, the eored's man with the most healing knowledge, came forward to inspect the wounded boy, motioning for another Rider to help him remove the blood-covered leather jerkin Stellan wore and Wulffon's frown deepened as he took in the blood seeping down Feorl's side. "You're wounded, too."

"It's nothing."

The commander grimaced and took Feorl's arm, drew him away slightly and had him sit down on the ground. "Don't tell me it's nothing. Pull up your shirt." Obligingly Feorl obeyed and let his officer poke at the gash along his side, flinching slightly as the rough fingers examined the long slash. At last Wulffon sat back. "Not bad. Have Theilon stitch it up when he's done." He looked up to see the man he had just mentioned approaching him.

"Sir?" Theilon's voice was strange, high-pitched and nervous. Feorl sent a quick glance over toward Stellan, who was still lying unconscious, his jerkin tossed aside and the underlying tunic torn open at the shoulder. Wulffon stood up, waited for him to continue. The man looked back at Stellan, then at Feorl, then at his captain.

"Yes?" Wulffon asked impatiently.

Theilon shuffled his feet uncomfortably, then shrugged. "She's a girl."

Wulffon stood motionless, stared at Theilon, who made a helpless motion with his shoulders. "What?" Wulffon's voice was quiet, sure he had heard wrong.

"She's a girl," repeated Theilon.

Wulffon immediately turned to look at Feorl, saw the astonishment on his face and knew it was a revelation to him also. Without another word he strode back to Stellan's side followed by Theilon and Feorl. Theilon knelt down, motioning the other two men to do the same.

"I took off the jerkin, and pulled down the tunic, and, well," he blushed and stammered. "She's a girl, sir."

"But, why – " Feorl reached out and brushed dark hair back from the pale face, confused and more than a little bewildered.

"The bruises," said Wulffon brusquely. "If she was being beaten at home she must have been determined to get away. She knew we'd never take a girl with us, but a boy…"

Feorl looked up at him. "In the woods just now, he – " he stopped, "she said she'd lied to me."

Wulffon sighed and nodded. "Knew we'd find out when we cleaned out the wound." He shot a look at Theilon. "How is that?"

Theilon looked unhappy. "Broken bone, a good bit of dirt in it, could be better."

Wulffon turned to Feorl. "What happened?"

Feorl told how he had found Stellan and had to pull the orc sword from the dirt before he could remove it from the wound and Wulffon scowled. He stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Theilon. "Clean it out the best you can, bandage it." He jerked his head toward Feorl. "Then stitch him up." Pointing to three other Riders who were wounded badly enough that they would need time to recover he gave his orders. "You will all be returning to Edoras. I'll send along Hethorn and a half-dozen men to get you there. The rest of us will stay and see if there are any more orcs about." He looked down at Feorl, still seated beside Stellan and looking at her in disbelief and felt a twinge of amusement and sympathy. The growing attachment between the two of them had been evident to everyone for weeks. Now to discover she was a young woman would certainly put a twist in everything. He reached down and patted Feorl's shoulder. "I'm entrusting her to your care. Get her safely back to Edoras, find her a safe place to stay."

Feorl gave a slight nod, still overwhelmed by the news. "Yes, sir."

* * *

"I'm cold." Stellan's voice was faint, pressed against Feorl's chest and he wrapped his cloak tighter around her. It was a warm afternoon and he was worried. If she was cold it meant the fever was worsening. He glanced beside him, saw Hethorn give him an anxious look. They had been traveling south for three days, moving as quickly as they could with the other wounded, but both Stellan and another Rider had developed fevers in the last several hours and they were still at least another day away from Edoras. 

Hethorn moved his horse over closer and looked pointedly at Stellan, swathed in Feorl's woolen cloak. "Worse?" he asked softly and Feorl nodded. Hethorn watched his friend as he gazed down at the girl bundled before him on his saddle. She'd ridden alone the first two days, silent and ashamed now that her secret had been discovered, refusing to say anything, her face tight with pain as the horse's movement irritated the wound and the broken bones. But this morning she had awoken with a fever and Feorl had insisted she ride with him, worried she would not be able to keep her balance on the horse.

Stellan shivered slightly and Feorl pulled her closer, his thoughts in a whirl as he rode. He had accepted the fact that she was a girl, more than that, a young woman, although it had taken most of the first day after the fight with the orcs for him to finally reach that point. Now as he rode he mostly thought about what would happen when they reached Edoras. Find her somewhere safe to stay, Wulffon had said. That was easily arranged in Feorl's mind – he was certain his sister would be glad to take in the girl, and that way he would be able to see her whenever he was in Edoras. The idea of not seeing her was unacceptable, he found to his surprise. His affection for the boy Stellan had easily transferred itself onto the girl Stellan, with the added advantage now that he could look at her from an entirely different perspective. He looked down at the dark head pillowed on his chest and felt a great surge of protection and concern. "All right?" he whispered and she nodded and cuddled closer against him.

They rode quietly for a while before she spoke again. "I'm sorry I lied." Her voice was soft and it sounded as if she might be trying not to cry. She had apologized to him at least a dozen times, and he had tried to reassure her just as many, but for some reason his assurances did not seem to placate her, rather even seemed to upset her more.

"It's all right," he soothed. "You were afraid." To his consternation she did start to cry, muffled little sobs that she tried to stifle by burying her face in his shirt. He shifted uncertainly, moving her injured arm carefully where Theilon had bound it across her chest and ran his hand through her soft black hair. "Shh, don't cry. Don't cry, Stellan." His words only increased her sobs and she wept against him and he heard her murmur "I'm a liar, Feorl, I lied to you, I'm sorry." Feeling distinctly at a loss as to what to do, he merely shushed her again and patted her uninjured shoulder awkwardly as they rode south, slowly making their way home.

* * *

Estel shivered as she felt herself being lifted down from the horse's back and couldn't stop the whimper that escaped her. Her shoulder hurt with a deep, throbbing hurt that seemed to pulse throughout her entire body, while there was a loud buzzing in her ears and a pain in her head that had grown stronger all day. "Feorl? Are we in Edoras?" Her voice sounded weak and shaky even to her own ears and she hated it, hated being weak, and she struggled briefly against the arms that held her. "Put me down." 

"Shh, stop." Feorl spoke gently as he carried her through the doorway of the soldier's quarters in Edoras and headed for the medical wing. Down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and he could hear the other Riders from his company behind him, Hethorn making sure the injured men made it up the steps and then he was in the main ward and a healer was there to meet him and beckoning toward an empty bed and he placed Stellan carefully on it and stepped back when the healer motioned him away.

"No, Feorl, don't go." Stellan opened her eyes and reached out her hand for him and he quickly knelt by the bed and took it, curled his larger fingers around hers.

"I'm right here," he comforted. "Right here." The healer, an older man, gave him a look of annoyance but said he would be permitted to stay so long as he stayed out of the way and Feorl meekly agreed.

As the other injured Riders were given over to healers to be cared for, the one working with Stellan began to remove the bandage, frowning when he saw the bloody cloth. As he went to pull off the torn tunic, Feorl reached over and took his hand. "She's a girl," he said softly, narrowing his eyes so that the healer would know he was not to expose her in the ward before the eyes of other soldiers. The words had more than the desired effect, halting the man's hand in mid-air as he stared at Feorl.

"A girl? What are you bringing a girl here for?" The healer shot a glance at Stellan, then at Feorl again, who opened his mouth and shook his head as he realized how ridiculous his next words would sound.

"We thought she was a boy. She said she was."

"Even a boy," the healer grunted, "has no business riding with an eored. Who is your captain? What was he thinking, taking a boy along?" He turned his body to block the view of the girl and pulled her tunic back just enough to reveal the swollen area surrounding the wound.

Feorl gave the man an exasperated look. "My captain is Wulffon and he had his reasons." He lowered his voice. "She was being beaten, her father beat her. She said she was a boy and we believed her, let her ride along." From the corner of his eye he saw Stellan shaking her head slightly and leaned down. "What is it? Does it hurt?"

Stellan squeezed his hand and bit her lip as the tears trickled from her eyes. "I'm a liar. I lied to you, Feorl." The tears increased and she gulped for breath. "My father didn't hit me. I fell, that's how I hurt my face." Estel gasped as the healer took a wet cloth and began to clean out the blood-encrusted gash. "My father would never hurt me," she said with a sob. "My father loves me." Her tears fell faster, but whether from her sorrow at telling the lie or because the healer was probing the injury with his fingers Feorl didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't stand seeing her cry and he leaned over without thinking and kissed her forehead.

"Shh, shh, it's all right. It doesn't matter." He reached up and caressed her hair. "You just need to get better, and we'll work all that out afterward."

"I'm sorry," Stellan whimpered and clutched at his hand. "I'm sorry I lied."

"Hush, shhh." His hand moved down to gently stroke her forehead. "Hush."

The healer looked up from his work and motioned another healer toward him. He spoke quietly and the woman nodded and disappeared for a moment, returning with a tray covered with sharp instruments and various medicine bottles, a cup and a bowl of warm water. "This has clotted, but it is infected." The healer said regretfully. "I have to reopen it and drain it, and remove any pieces of bone." Feorl nodded and tightened his grip on Stellan's hand.

"Hold on, Stellan." She didn't answer, only swallowed and squeezed his hand harder, squinting her eyes shut. She wasn't ready for the red hot agony of the healer's necessary but painful therapy, however, and as the sharp edge of his instrument worked its way into her sensitive flesh she stiffened and moaned and the tears ran down her cheeks. Feorl put his head down on the bed close to hers and held her hand and whispered words of encouragement as the healer probed and prodded and pulled out several tiny shards of bone that he dropped into one of the small bowls on the tray.

At last the healer was satisfied with his work and sat back, wiping his blade. Feorl smoothed back Stellan's hair again and felt her relax a little. "There, done. Lay back and rest."

"Here." The healer lifted her head and held a small cup to her lips. "Drink this, it will help." Estel twisted her head away from the strange smell to hide her face in Feorl's shoulder.

Feorl took the cup from the healer and ran his fingers along her cheek, coaxing her to look up at him. "Come, now. I know you are tired, and this will make it stop hurting." He saw her lip tremble as she held back a moan and then gave him a faint nod and let him press the cup to her mouth. "All of it," he said as she swallowed, then he helped her lay back again. "Good girl." Her mouth trembled again at his words, his acknowledgement of her gender, and he gave her a smile and patted her cheek as he repeated himself. "Good girl." The healer gave him an approving look as he took the cup and Stellan gave a ragged sigh and soon grew calmer, lying motionless as Feorl repeatedly ran his hand through her hair in a soothing gesture. "Shh, there," he crooned, hoping the medicine would help her sleep.

In minutes Estel felt herself drifting, exhausted by the previous days in the saddle and healer's ministrations, the pain now dulled by the medicine. The sound of Feorl's voice and the touch of his hand was comforting as her mind wandered and sleep beckoned. She fell into a light doze where the noise of the medical ward was no more than a pleasant hum surrounding her.

The healer poked through the tray, not finding what he wanted and motioned a passing apprentice toward him. "Take these to be cleansed," he said, dropping the probe and the knife he had used into the basket the trainee carried. "And bring me the peniblue salve and some bandages". The apprentice nodded before scurrying away on his errand and the healer took a moment to study Stellan. "So, she lied about being a boy, and about being beaten. Do you REALLY know anything about her?" He shook his head in bemusement, then eyed the dark hair spread across the pillow and suddenly sat up, looked intently at Feorl. "When did all of this happen?"

Feorl shrugged. "A little over a month or so ago. We picked her up in Osgiliath. She – "

"A month? In Osgiliath? Isn't that in Gondor?" The healer barked out the questions rapidly and Feorl was baffled by his sudden excitement.

"Yes, we had escorted a shipment to the city and had three days leave. She showed up at a tavern one night, asked to come along…" His voice trailed off as the healer snapped his fingers at a younger man standing across the room and motioned him over.

"Go find Marshall Elfhelm immediately," he ordered, his voice shaking. "Tell him I have a young girl here, black hair, grey eyes, from Osgiliath." As the other healer left the first apprentice appeared with the requested salve and bandages and the healer took them with a word of thanks and began to carefully spread the pale blue salve in and around the wound, mindful of the broken collarbone. As he worked the healer glanced up at Feorl, saw his confusion and gave a large sigh. "The King's niece has been missing for more than a month," he said quietly. "Everyone has been searching for her." He paused until he had Feorl's full attention. "She has black hair and grey eyes and was last seen in Osgiliath."

Feorl stared at him open-mouthed. "The King's niece? The Steward of Gondor's daughter?" He looked down at the sleeping girl, released her hand and suddenly stood up, took a backwards step away from the bed as the implications came to him. "Oh no, no, no." He turned back to the healer. "It can't be her," he whispered, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself rather than the other man, which in truth he was. This girl could not be the one they were searching for, he was sure of it. The Steward's daughter would be prim and ladylike, and used to a life of luxury, not a wild hellion who could ride a horse and kill an orc. "No," he said with conviction. "It's not her."

"That's why I sent for Marshall Elfhelm," said the healer, his voice calm as he tied the edge of the bandage tightly. "He knows the girl, he'll know if it is her or not. I don't want to call for the King and be wrong."

Feorl rubbed his head and paced a few steps, looking back at Stellan, feeling the faint niggling of doubt. He had noted her obvious education and her manner of speech, characteristics that pointed to a noble house, when she had first joined them, now it was suddenly making it all seem possible. "But she can fight like a warrior!" he said in bewilderment. "And ride like – " a comparison failed him and he fell silent.

The healer looked at him in surprise. "Isn't her mother Eowyn of Rohan? Surely she would train her daughter to be a shieldmaiden?"

Feorl had no answer so he merely sat down beside the bed and took Stellan's hand in his again. A flurry of activity in the hall brought him back to his feet as Commander General Marshall of the Mark Elfhelm strode into the room. The healer also leaped up and the Marshall, a tall, middle-aged man with the usual Rohirric mane of blond hair started across the floor toward them. Reaching the foot of the bed he stopped and stared down at the small, sturdy figure lying there, studying her for a long moment before turning to the healer. "Is she badly injured?" Feorl could see the Marshall's hand tightly gripping the wooden footboard.

The healer shook his head. "A sword wound, my lord; a broken collarbone, some infection. Nothing serious. We can take care of everything with no problem." Elfhelm heaved a great sigh of relief and turned toward the door. "See to it. I will return shortly."

The healer could not restrain his curiosity. "Is it her, my lord? Is she the King's niece?"

The fierce face of the Marshall softened and he smiled slightly, looked back at the girl and nodded. "It's her." The smile disappeared as he turned away again. "I will be back with the King." He left the room as quickly as he had come, leaving the healer to fuss over the sleeping girl's wounds and Feorl to sink back down into the low chair beside the bed and gape at Stellan.

"The King's niece. The Steward of Gondor's daughter." His voice was slow and thick with shock and disbelief as he reached for her hand, then reconsidered and snatched it back. Nearly royalty! And she'd been sharing a tent with him, cooking his meals, polishing his armor! What would the Steward of Gondor think? What would the King say? Feorl swallowed down the lump of panic and nerves that suddenly rose into his throat. He hadn't done anything wrong, really, but still, royalty was touchy, and she was the King's niece. He looked up to see the healer eyeing him sympathetically and remembered his description of the King to Stellan that night in the tent, about his temper, feeling more than a little sick at the thought of facing the King's anger. Then he remembered who she was and felt foolish. She would have known about his temper! No wonder she did not want to be seen by him in Edoras!

He rubbed nervously shaking hands across his face, his thoughts in turmoil. Why had she lied to them? He felt a flash of anger that only lasted for a moment, disappearing the instant he looked down at the dark lashes against her pale face and the bandaged shoulder. He lowered himself carefully down onto the bedside and ran a tentative hand through her hair. She was so young, so vulnerable, she must have had a reason. The healer gave him an odd look as he gathered up his instruments and supplies but left him without a word as Feorl stared down at her, lacing his fingers through hers.

Less than fifteen minutes later there was another disturbance in the ward as people flooded through the door and Feorl looked up to see the King and Queen of Rohan heading toward him, the King's face grim and terrible and Feorl loosened his grasp on Stellan's hand and went down on one knee. But the King had eyes only for the girl as he rushed to the bedside, taking the hand Feorl had just released and sliding his own large palm gently beneath her head.

"Estel!" Eomer's voice was harsh with emotion even as his thumb lightly stroked along her cheekbone. He leaned closer as he felt Lothiriel press against him from behind and he squeezed the small, limp hand and spoke her name again. "Estel!"

Slowly the grey eyes fluttered open and Estel looked up into a familiar face and smiled sleepily. "Uncle," she said, feeling the tears slip from her eyes as Eomer lifted her gently, and hugged her, pressing his face into her black hair to hide his own tears as he felt the weight of worry lift. Lothiriel edged around him to press a kiss to Estel's forehead and the girl smiled. "Aunt 'Thiri."

"Where have you been?" Eomer's voice was ragged and he held her close against him as though to reassure himself she was truly there.

"We have all been so worried," chided Lothiriel gently as she cupped Estel's face between her palms and kissed her again and saw the grey eyes fill with tears once more.

"I'm sorry," said Estel in a small voice. Feorl raised his eyes and watched in amazement as his King, Eomer of Rohan, known for his temper, his aggressiveness and his ferocity in battle, held his niece in his arms and kissed her face and hair and let the tears fall freely from his eyes. "You're going to be all right now," he said gruffly, kissing her once more before he picked her up and got to his feet. Feorl felt a strange pang of jealousy when he saw Stellan rest her head trustingly against the King's chest. No, not Stellan, he realized, the King had called her Estel. Feorl's shoulders slumped sadly; he didn't even know her true name. She had lied about that, too. Perhaps the healer was right, did he really know anything about her?

Eomer held Estel tenderly, circling his arm carefully around her bandaged shoulder, and started out of the medical ward, heading for the royal apartments, but Estel pushed away from him and looked around blearily. "Feorl? Wait, Uncle, where's Feorl?" She reached out a shaky hand and her voice was querulous and irritable from pain and the effects of the healer's medicine. "Uncle Eomer! I want Feorl!" The King halted and looked behind him, saw the young Rider looking after him uncertainly and frowned and Feorl shivered under his hot gaze. The Queen, however, did not. She glanced from Estel to Feorl and understanding dawned on her and she instantly walked back to the bedside.

"Rise, Feorl." She gave him a smile as he scrambled to his feet. Behind her the King looked him up and down.

"You brought her here?" His words were neutral, neither laudatory nor accusing, and Feorl wished he had stayed on his knees.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Feorl." Eomer-King spoke in a commanding voice and Feorl looked at him and swallowed, knowing for certain her would never want to face this man on a battlefield, and was nearly as sure he did not want to face him now. But as he met his gaze he realized the King looked stern but not angry and he felt slightly heartened, until Eomer motioned for him to follow him. "Accompany us." The Queen gave Feorl an encouraging nod and turned to follow her husband and Feorl fell in behind her.

When they arrived at the King's spacious apartments Estel was quickly tucked into a large, comfortable bed in a room near the King's private chambers. The Queen stayed behind with her as Eomer directed Feorl to another room nearby. The Rider stood uneasily as the King seated himself and looked at him with piercing eyes. "So, Feorl, tell me what my niece has been doing for the last six weeks, and how you came to bring her to Edoras with a sword wound."

Hesitantly the Rider told of the boy who had appeared at the tavern in Osgiliath with bruises, bringing a grunt of disbelief from the King. "Beaten? The Steward of Gondor would sooner slit his own throat than harm a child of his." His eyes studied Feorl. "Your captain believed this lie?" Feorl dropped his gaze for a moment and shrugged. "She had cuts and bruises on her face, my Lord, Wulffon just assumed…" He trailed off uncomfortably, realized all of them had heard her speak of her father, seen the marks on her and jumped to a conclusion. "She never corrected us," he said a bit defensively. "She wanted to come along."

"No doubt she did." The King leaned back in his chair and considered the Rider before him. Aragorn's letter with the news of Estel's disappearance had been circumspect and discrete, but the added information in the short note from Eowyn had let Eomer know that things were far from well in Ithilien. Eomer knew the kind of black despair he had feared might overtake his reserved and self-contained brother-in-law because of Barahir's death and especially after Eomund's parting words, and from his sister's letter it appeared to be all and more than he had imagined. The girl had been desperate to escape the mood of the house, probably, and a small part of Eomer admired her recklessness. He said nothing, however, and merely motioned for Feorl to continue.

The younger man told of the weeks on patrol, "Stellan's" easy adaptation into the eored, her willingness to do whatever asked, and finally the fight with the orcs earlier in the week when her true sex had been discovered. Eomer listened quietly, interrupting a few times to ask questions. As Feorl spoke his nervousness eased and when he finished his tale, the King was shaking his head in grudging amusement. "She killed one, did she?" Feorl couldn't help but return his sovereign's grin.

"Yes, my lord. And she made sure I took the sword for her as a token." Feorl thought of the sword, strapped to the saddle of the horse he had ridden to Edoras, and hoped it was still safe.

"My thanks, Feorl." The King rose from his chair and gave the Rider a thumping pat on the back. He smiled at the young Rider, then laughed, his relief at Estel's return easy for Feorl to see, and with a shock he realized his fabled King had been frantic with concern over his niece. The formidable monarch suddenly became human to him, and the thought seemed strange to Feorl and he smiled shyly at the King.

"I am glad she is found, my lord."

The King smiled back and gestured toward the door of the chamber. "Thank you for all you did. You can go on back to the barracks, now, but keep the sword for her, I'm sure she'll want it in a day or so."

Feorl hesitated, his reluctance instantly noticed by the King, who gave him a strange look and raised his eyebrows as thought to invite a comment. Feorl bit his lip before finding his courage. "If it's all right, my lord, I'd rather stay here, with her, Estel." He blushed as he said her name and looked at his hands.

Eomer made a thoughtful face and stared at him, and Feorl's face went a darker shade of red as he waited. At last Eomer put a hand on his shoulder. "You cannot stay with her, Feorl." Feorl nodded in understanding, had known when he had asked it was impossible. She was no longer Stellan, but Estel, the King's niece, the Steward's daughter. He thought of his plan on the ride home to settle the girl with his sister so that he could see her often and felt a great sorrow as it all vanished before him and he knew he would never see her again and his thoughts were in such a whirl he missed the King's next words and looked up at him anxiously.

"My Lord?"

The King shook him slightly, a friendly shake Feorl realized. "I said, Feorl, you can come and see her tomorrow, all right?" He gave the Rider a mock scowl. "You should listen more closely to your King."

Feorl's eyes went wide with surprise and pleasure. "Yes, my lord. I will, be back, I mean, and listen, also, I will."

Eomer laughed and gave him a little push toward the door. "Tomorrow then. And Feorl?"

"My Lord?"

The King motioned toward the dried blood on Feorl's breeches. "Take yourself to the healers, and get some rest." He spoke in a quiet voice that Feorl still knew to be an order and he bowed.

"Yes, my lord." He looked down and realized his own wound was sore and itchy and his back and shoulders ached with weariness. A soft bed of his own in the medical ward sounded good. He bowed again and smiled at the King. "I'll be back, tomorrow," he said, in a determined tone that brought an amused smile to Eomer's face and he waved him away.

"Tomorrow, Feorl."

* * *

"In Edoras." Eowyn's voice was faint as she repeated the words, saying them almost as if they were in a strange language. Beside her Arwen nodded and Aragorn handed her the letter with her brother's seal. 

"In Edoras," said Aragorn. "She's been riding with an eored." He refused to release the smile that played about his mouth. "Apparently she cut her hair, dressed in Sam's clothes and joined the Riders."

Eowyn looked at him and her own mouth twitched, then broke into a relieved grin. Arwen thought she could actually see the weight of worry lift from her as she realized her daughter was found, and was safe. "Where would she get such an idea?"

"I cannot imagine," Aragorn replied dryly.

The grin faded from her face as Eowyn read the rest of Eomer's letter. "She killed an orc?" Her voice rose in shock. "Broken collarbone? A sword wound?"

"But recovering," said Aragorn reassuringly, pointing further down the page. His finger stopped over a sentence near the end. "And a suitor." He shared a quick look with Arwen and they both smiled. "She's been a busy girl. Takes after her mother."

Eowyn blushed and then immediately got to her feet. "I am going to Edoras." Aragorn nodded. "I expected as much. Preparations are being made, you can leave this afternoon."

Eowyn gave him a brief nod of thanks, her eyes scanning the letter again before she turned to the King with a start. "I must let Faramir know." Aragorn could hear the slight catch in her voice, knew she was missing her husband, regretting he was not there with her.

"I've already sent a messenger," he said softly. "And I've notified all the governors in the major towns, wherever Eomund is, he'll get word, also."

"Thank you, Aragorn," Eowyn's eyes were brimming as she looked at him. "Arwen." She reached over and squeezed the Queen's hand. Arwen gave her a return squeeze and rose to her feet, hugged Eowyn tightly.

"I am so glad she is found," she whispered. Eowyn said nothing, could only let the tears fall into Arwen's thick hair. When she raised her head she wiped at her reddened eyes and gave them both a tremulous smile.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll go pack my things, and tell the rest of my children." Aragorn took her hands and smiled down at her. Eowyn suddenly burst into tears, feeling foolish when the King and Arwen both hugged her close. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Arwen stroked her hair. "Now there is one less thing to worry you. You can relax a bit." Eowyn nodded wordlessly, still trying to control her tears. Aragorn still held her hands and he squeezed them encouragingly.

"Estel is found," he said, "And Faramir will be coming home soon."

Eowyn's eyes filled with tears again. "I hope so, my lord, I hope so."

* * *

Celeborn watched with amusement and wonder as Pippin filled his plate once again with food. The ability of hobbits to eat more than their own weight at one meal never ceased to amaze the Elf Lord. He had finished his own meal nearly thirty minutes ago, but he had stayed to talk to the hobbit. 

"So it was a bad night?" he asked, his face creased with concern.

Pippin hesitated, then nodded. "I think so. It's hard to always know, but he didn't want to come eat, and it didn't look as if the bed had been slept in."

Celeborn gave a gusty sigh. Another bad night for Faramir. A bad night, and there had been several lately, meant he either had slept very little or not at all. A good night was one where Pippin managed to talk him into lying down in the bed and then he slept there at least part of the night. Often after a good night he could be coerced into eating breakfast with Pippin and Celeborn, either on the porch or in the garden. After a bad night he usually kept to himself the rest of the day, either in his room or wandering along the stone bridge.

"Do you see any change in him?" Celeborn asked the hobbit. "I see none, but he rarely lowers his guard around me."

Pippin chewed the last of his sausage and swallowed, then took a large drink of tea as he considered. "A little," he said tentatively. "He is eating, at least some of the time."

The Elf gave him an appreciative look; knew that in itself was a success he owed to the hobbit. Pippin managed to get Faramir to eat most of the time by merely acting on the assumption that he would, filling his plate and passing him the dishes, and most of the time it worked, to one degree or another. He ate, usually, and had gained a little of the lost weight back although he was still painfully thin.

"I'm not sure if he is sleeping more," the hobbit said thoughtfully. "He tries, I think."

"The nightmares?" Celeborn asked. He did not know much about them, nor did Pippin. The Halfling had only learned of them from a passing reference Faramir had made, after which he had refused to elaborate any further, but both Elf and hobbit suspected the bad dreams haunted the Man's sleep almost nightly. Pippin made a face.

"I think so." He studied the table before him a while, and Celeborn assumed he thought he had answered the question and was looking for his next course, when Pippin surprised him by sitting back in his chair and crossing his hands over his stomach.

"He needs something to fill his time," he said forcefully. "I noticed the other day in your library," he looked suddenly nervous, not quite sure he was supposed to be wandering about the room filled with ancient texts. "I was looking to see if you had a copy of old Bilbo's book."

"We have one," Celeborn assured him.

"Yes, I found it," the hobbit answered. "I had talked Faramir into going with me and while I was there I noticed him looking at some of the old scrolls of poetry and ancient tales. Some of them are quite tattered and in poor shape." He raised hopeful eyes to the Elf and Celeborn smiled.

"Perhaps if I could find someone to copy them?" he suggested. "Someone with an elegant hand and time to devote to carefully duplicating them?" Pippin wagged his head vigorously. "It would give him something else to think about," mused the Elf.

"And he talks more when he's doing something else," said Pippin, then frowned. "No, not more, but, more real talking." The hobbit's brow puckered. "Do you understand?"

"Not polite niceties?" Celeborn hazarded a guess. "Actual conversations?"

"That's it!" Pippin sat up in his chair and dumped the rest of the blueberry pie onto his plate, sending a quick look at Celeborn to see if he minded, but he held up his hand to indicate he was full. His mind was already working on finding a way to get Faramir into the library and working on the old scrolls, as well as Pippin to keep him talking.

As he had studied the Man over the weeks Celeborn had come to the conclusion that his grief was like an infection, deep inside, poisoning his soul. If the poison could be lanced, drawn out, the healing could begin, and to Celeborn's mind, only by speaking of it could the grief be released from Faramir's heart. He knew Faramir resisted such measures, having been taught from an early age that it was weakness, but perhaps this was a way to circumvent the wary defenses that he had raised so long ago. The Elf had already seen that Pippin had been able to break through a little, perhaps with time and the distraction of the scrolls, he could reach down further and open the carefully guarded door to the place in his heart where Faramir hid his sorrow.

The sound of galloping hooves clattering across the stone bridge and through the gate of Rivendell turned him in his chair.

A dark-haired man wearing livery emblazoned with a White Tree threw himself down from his lathered horse and hurried up the steps of the porch, pulling a piece of parchment from a pouch at his side as he approached. "My lord," he said with a bow, presenting the parchment to Celeborn. The Elf Lord saw the King of Gondor's seal and broke open the letter hurriedly to read it contents. Pippin also recognized the seal and stopped chewing to wait anxiously. At last Celeborn looked up and smiled.

"She is found," he said simply. Pippin leaped from the chair and rushed across the porch to read over the Elf's shoulder. Aragorn's letter told of Estel's discovery in detail and stated it was to be handed over to Faramir immediately. Within it was a folded letter from Eowyn, sealed with Faramir's own crest. Pippin was trembling with anticipation. "Let's go!" he squeaked, racing ahead of Celeborn to enter the house. "I want to see his face when you tell him!"

* * *

"Safe, safe in Edoras." Faramir read Eowyn's words on the page once more, letting the words disappear as his eyes grew blurry and he shifted on the bed where he sat. He had sunk down there in shock when Celeborn had happily presented Aragorn's letter to him while Pippin, nearly dancing with excitement, had bounced beside him on the mattress as he read the King's words. Estel had been found. Faramir had mutely accepted the Elf and the Hobbit's congratulations and after they had left him alone he still sat there for the next hour, reading and re-reading both Aragorn's and Eowyn's letters. He read the descriptions of Estel's adventures and Aragorn's assurances that she would be closely watched as she recuperated, but he kept returning to Eowyn's last sentence. "She is safe, safe in Edoras, my love, and I am going to her, and will see you soon." My love. He felt his heart contract. Estel safe and Eowyn reassuring him of her love. The tiniest of smiles crossed his lips and he lay back on the bed. Last night there had been no sleep, the nightmare had stalked him through the dark hours, hounded him relentlessly, but this morning the sun was out and his daughter was found, and Eowyn called him My Love. For the first time in months Faramir considered the possibility that things would get better, and the thought surprised and comforted him and soothed his wounded spirit, and he fell asleep on the bed, clutching Eowyn's letter.

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

Once again - thanks to all my great Beta'ers (is that a word?) And for all of you who review! THANKS!! 


	8. A Discussion

* * *

Chapter 8 – A Discussion:

* * *

"Eomund?" Mal's voice behind him startled Eomund and he hastily ran his arm across his face before turning toward the older man. The old sailor was standing behind him, his face full of regret and sadness. "I'm sorry."

Eomund turned back and let his head drop down again, resting it on his forearms where they lay across the rail. The twenty-five stripes he had taken yesterday as they approached Pelargir had scoured the skin from him, leaving open bloody wounds that burned and throbbed as he searched for an answer. "Why?" he asked, his voice bleak and empty. "Why did he do it? What purpose did it serve?" He suddenly looked up at Mal with surprise. "You called me by my name." Mal gave him a little smile and approached the rail to stand beside him.

"I believe you." He leaned across the rail and kept his eyes on the horizon. "It's the only explanation for your behavior. You have to be either telling the truth or mad." Raising his eyebrows and looking Eomund up and down he shook his head. "You don't look mad to me, so you must be Eomund of Gondor, the son of the Steward." With a jerk of his head he motioned behind him. "I think he believes you, too."

"Then why not let me go?"

"It's not that easy, lad." The old man pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "If he lets you go, he would be admitting he believed you. That would mean listening to every other man on the ship, thinking about them, considering them. He might have to change the way things are done, change the way he treats the men, even reconsider taking on conscripts, everything. That's a frightening thought to a man." He looked at Eomund with a measured glance. "He's afraid of you."

"Of me!" Eomund gave a derisive laugh. "What can I do to him?"

"Tell your father, of course," said Mal.

Eomund's face hardened. "Tell him what? That I got drunk in Umbar, was robbed, and ended up here?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't tell. The Captain doesn't need to worry about that."

Mal made a thoughtful face and they stood quietly, watching the sun turn the sea to blood. "Let me ask you, if you had gotten the chance, would you have jumped ship and run yesterday, in Pelargir?"

Eomund took a deep breath and then let it out in a ragged sigh. "Yes."

"So you see part of his reasoning."

"NO!" Eomund straightened, wincing as the torn skin across his back stretched and burned. "I am charged with finding my sister, Mal. My king has given me his command, and I am failing him. She is lost, missing, and I cannot find her from this ship!" His hands gripped the wooden railing as he spoke, his sense of helplessness digging his fingers into the worn wood. "I am here on illegitimate charges, against my will, and I am failing in my duty. My duty to my king…and to my father." His voice broke, the last words whispered.

Mal said nothing as Eomund made a strangled noise in his throat and stood upright, moving carefully this time and looked out across the water dyed red by the sinking sun. "My father is not well," he said finally, softly, the words spoken almost to himself. "He and I – we argued." He stopped, shook his head. "No, he did not argue. I was angry, I said things. Now he is ill, and I fear if I do not find my sister he will not recover."

"Surely it is not your fault if he is ill," The old sailor tried to comfort him and Eomund laughed harshly, humorlessly.

"Ah, but it is, Mal. It is my fault." He turned away from the rail and crossed his arms, his lacerated shoulders slumping as he fought to control his emotions. When he turned back Mal could see the grief on his face. Eomund rubbed a shaky hand across his eyes and stepped back beside him and let out a gusty sigh. "My brother was killed in the spring," he began in a low voice, and as the sun slid below the horizon and the sea went from red to burgundy to black Eomund told his story to the old man, the first time he had spoken of the past spring to anyone, and Mal listened. Listened without comment or question, without even looking at the younger man, so that Eomund was not embarrassed by the tears that ran down his cheeks or the quiet moan of anguish that welled up from his throat when he finished. Mal merely let him talk and when he was through they were both silent for a long time as the sea splashed softly against the side of the ship and the sounds of the men on board floated around them.

At last Mal turned his head and looked at Eomund. "Do you still think your father is to blame for your brother's death?"

"No." Eomund shook his head. "I didn't really believe it even then, I was angry and upset and I wanted to hurt him." His mouth trembled and he cleared his throat roughly. "And I did. I haven't been home for months, even though Mother wrote and asked me over and over, and now he is sick, and Estel is gone, and I …" His voice faltered and he rested his head on the railing again.

"Things happen." The old man looked out at the ocean again. "Things we never plan on, things we never even imagine." His hand rubbed absently along the smooth wooden railing of the ship, then slid it over and patted Eomund on the arm awkwardly. "Go home, lad. As soon as your time here is up, go home and apologize to your father." His toothless mouth was set in a firm line.

Eomund raised his head and swallowed, stared at the water in the dim light of evening. "If I don't find my sister, I don't think I can face him. I don't think I can go back without her."

An angry frown creased Mal's face. "You think that's the right thing to do, boy? Your father has already lost a son and maybe a daughter. Now you are going to just disappear, too?"

"But it's been months and I haven't found Estel." Eomund shook his head from side to side slowly. "And I don't even know where Father is, the King sent him away."

"Listen to me, Eomund." Mal's voice was a fierce whisper. "Go home. Whether you find your sister or not. Face your king. Find your father and apologize."

Eomund looked at him curiously. "Why do you care so much?"

The old sailor straightened up and glared at him. "I have lived a long life. I've known happiness and I've known grief, and I'm telling you what you need to hear." His face softened a little. "Besides, I like you, boy, I can't help it. You've got the hardest head of any man I've ever known." He glanced at Eomund's back. "And now one of the worst scarred backs because of it." He leaned in close again. "Time to grow up, Eomund. Learn from this, and go home."

Eomund ran a thoughtful finger across his lower lip. "Do you think he'll let me go, the Captain, I mean, after my time is up?"

Mal felt a twinge of uneasiness, knew that if Eomund was indeed the Steward's son the Captain might not want to risk having him report his treatment to his father, but he decided to be optimistic. "Of course he will. He's hard, but he's fair. Once your time is served, you'll be free to go. But Eomund?"

"Yes?"

Mal turned and took him by the arm, turned him so that they faced each other, and stared into Eomund's face. "Please, keep your mouth shut. Try to stay out of trouble. I was serious when I said you frighten the captain. Don't give him a reason to put you on the mast again." His eyes moved to glance down the torn and bruised flesh of Eomund's back. "Another beating like that could kill you."

Eomund could read the worry in the old man's face and it surprised and touched him, that the old sailor cared for him and he knew he was giving him good advice. The agony of the stripes was as fresh in his mind as on his back, and he had no desire to have it repeated. He gave a reluctant nod, a quick jerky motion. "I'll try, Mal, really."

* * *

Eowyn managed to hide her smile as she watched Feorl lean down to bid Estel good evening before he left them, seeing the warm affection in his eyes as he made certain to give her a chaste peck on the hand while Estel grinned at him with equal fondness. Turning to Eowyn and Alasse he bowed his head in as regal as gesture as he could muster, his face slightly flushed. "My lady." His face flushed even darker when he raised his head and caught Eowyn's eye. "I thank you for your consideration." She gave the young man credit for meeting her gaze squarely.

"Good evening, Feorl." Eowyn returned his bow with a nod of her head and he left them and she was sure she saw his shoulders slump in relief. He had barely disappeared before Estel anxiously turned to her. "Well?" Her face was full of hope and worry as she looked at her mother and Eowyn busied herself with the napkin on her lap for a moment as she gathered her thoughts.

"He's very sweet, Estel," she said.

"Yes, he is, isn't he?" said Estel dreamily, earning her an annoyed look from her sister and another smile from her mother. They sat together on a terrace that faced west, in the King's apartments in Edoras, enjoying the last of the evening sunshine. Estel's shoulder was still bandaged but she was rapidly recovering her strength and restlessly waiting to be released from the healer's care. Now she waited for her mother's answer.

In the days between Estel's discovery and Eowyn's arrival, Feorl had managed to visit Estel each day, bringing her small gifts and news and in general keeping her entertained and happy and the affection she already bore for him had quickly grown into something more serious. Lothiriel, seeing her niece's wild heart had been caught by the young Rider, watched with approval and convinced Eomer to find a reason to keep Feorl nearby for the time being, even against his worries that he was usurping Eowyn and especially Faramir's authority.

"He seems a good man, 'Thiri," he said with exasperation one morning when she brought up the subject once more. "But I am not her father, I cannot approve or disapprove of him."

"But Faramir will ask you about him, you know he will," she had returned complacently, picking through her own breakfast. "What will you say?"

Eomer frowned, his blond brows wrinkling over his eyes. "I will say, quite truthfully, that I really don't even know him. I need to ask Wulffon." He shook his head at her. "You are just an incurable romantic." She only grinned at him in answer.

"She's like you, my King," she said, knowing it annoyed him when she called him that. "And like her mother. You are all the same, headstrong and willful." She giggled at Eomer's glare. "And when you find the one you love, you are hopelessly lost." Eomer's face softened and he slid his hand across the table to take his wife's.

"I'm not lost," he said in a mock growl, and Lothiriel laughed. "I note you do not dispute me on headstrong and willful, my lord." Eomer gave her a wicked grin as he raised her hand to his lips.

"You'll speak to Wulffon?" Lothiriel gave him her best pleading look and he groaned in surrender. "I will speak to him."

When Eowyn and Alasse had arrived in Edoras, there had been tearful reunions and apologies and Feorl had been momentarily forgotten. The next day, however, Estel had begged that Feorl have dinner with her mother and sister and he had reluctantly agreed, slightly in awe of Estel's noble family. Still, he had resisted his nervousness and come to the meal, spoken politely with Eowyn and Alasse, eaten without embarrassing himself too much, and found to his great relief that they were rather pleasant people after all. One meal had become another and within a few days it seemed to be taken for granted that Feorl would eat with them. Now, a week later, watching her daughter's face, Eowyn's smile faded and she tried to look stern.

"However, no matter how sweet he is, on you or otherwise, you cannot marry."

"But Mother!" Estel wailed.

"Yet," finished Eowyn, quickly taking a drink of wine to disguise her expression when Estel's cries were instantly stifled and transformed into an angry glare directed toward her sister's giggle.

"Yet?" Her voice was hopeful. "Soon, though?" She gave her mother a beseeching look. "He was so nervous about asking, you know. You frighten him."

"I frighten him?" Eowyn rolled her eyes at her daughter. "Estel, there is no hurry. You are young, you have time to wait and I need to talk to your father. He will want to meet Feorl, you know, before he even considers giving permission."

"Oh." Estel looked down and toyed with her food. Her mother had told her about her father being sent away to recover his health, and she felt more than a little guilty at the part she had played. "What do you think he'll say?"

"I don't know, Estel." Eowyn appeared to be thinking the matter over intently. She studied her daughter. "Perhaps you should be a little more concerned about that, and what I might say."

"You?" Eowyn watched worry and anger both come over Estel. "Why?"

"Estel." Eowyn sat back and crossed her arms, frowned at her daughter. "You did a very foolish thing. A very immature thing. Not the behavior one looks for in a girl of marriageable age."

"But Mother!" Estel wailed. "I had to do something. It was so awful at home, I hated it." Her dark brows drew together in a fierce frown.

"You look just like Uncle when you do that," murmured Alasse, earning an angry glare from her sister.

Eowyn shushed Alasse with a motion of her hand and matched Estel's look with one of her own. "Do you understand what your little escapade did to your father and I? How it hurt us?"

Estel's face went white and she looked down at her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry."

Eowyn doubted Estel truly understood the hurt she had inflicted, wondered if that was possible at her age, but she tried again. "We were both frantic, Estel. We had no idea where you were, or what might happen to you." She ignored the tears starting the ooze from the corners of the grey eyes. "Did you even give a moment's thought to what it would do to your father to read your letter, read that you were afraid of him?"

"I was afraid," said Estel, beginning to sniffle.

"Afraid OF him, Estel, or afraid FOR him?" Eowyn could see Alasse's eyes threatening to spill over as she watched her mother and sister, and she scooted her chair over beside Estel, trying to find the balance between having her acknowledge the part she had played in Faramir's condition while not blaming everything on her.

Estel wiped at her eyes with her napkin and looked at her mother. "I don't know, Mother. He was just so sad all of the time, and unhappy, and I felt like I couldn't breathe, and then that night when the King came…" Her mouth trembled as the tears began again in earnest. "I've never seen him like that, so angry, and I just wanted to get away."

At her words Eowyn put an arm around her, motioned Alasse over beside her and hugged both of them tightly. "But that is when you need to stay, Estel. When people need you the most." She kissed each girl on the cheek and looked at Estel. "He needed us there, all of us, do you understand?"

"And E'mun had already left him," said Alasse quietly and Eowyn nodded.

"Yes, he had, so your father needed us more than ever."

"I'm sorry, Mother." Estel's voice was wretched. She gave another sniff and blew her nose on her napkin before she looked at her mother. "But he is getting better, yes?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Eowyn. "But I want you to remember this when he comes home. He loves you." Her eyes moved back and forth between them. "Both of you, all of you. More than you can ever know, and I don't want to ever see him hurt like that again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mother," said Estel and beside her Alasse nodded, her grey eyes bright with tears. Eowyn decided she had made enough of an impact and settled back in her chair again.

"What should I tell him about Feorl, when I see him?" Instantly Estel's face lit up.

"Tell him Feorl is sweet and kind and funny, and handsome, and smart and a good fighter, and brave, and-" A giggle from Alasse stopped her recitation of Feorl's sterling qualities and she snapped her mouth shut and glared at her sister.

"Estel," said her mother dryly. "Does he have any faults?"

"No." Estel shook her head emphatically as Eowyn slowly folded her hands before her and looked across the table to give her daughter a skeptical look. Estel lowered her eyes and sighed. "Well, he – he doesn't - I told him it doesn't matter, that I can teach him, that lots of people can't, but it's not really hard." Her words fell over one another as she spoke and Eowyn looked confused.

"What are you talking about?"

Estel sighed and looked down in her lap for a moment. "He can't read. Don't say anything, Mother, it embarrasses him, please? I told him I could teach him, and he wants to learn, and he's so smart I know he'd learn fast. He never learned when he was younger. He helped his parents until he became a Rider, they raise horses along the Entwash River. Reading's not important here like in Gondor."

Her mother raised her hand to silence the flood of words. "I think I know a little something about what's important in Rohan, Estel." Estel was silent, hung her head, did not expect to hear Eowyn's small chuckle. "Who do you think taught me to read, my dear?" Sudden realization brought Estel's head up sharply and she stared at her mother.

"Father?"

Eowyn gave a little laugh at the look on her face. "Oh, I could write my name, but not much else. You are right, reading is not a skill that is highly valued in Rohan most of the time." She fell silent and a soft smile appeared on her lips as she remembered quiet nights before the fire with a book and Faramir's gentle encouragement as he helped her sound out a difficult word, his quiet voice, the glow in his eyes when she did it correctly, and how he would lean close and reward her with a slow kiss. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her mouth as the longing for him suddenly overwhelmed her. Quickly rising from her seat she turned away from the table.

"Mother? Are you all right?" Estel and Alasse exchanged worried glances.

"I'm fine, I – I just miss your father." She straightened, wiped at her eyes and turned back, smiling tremulously. "You are right, Estel. Tell Feorl it is nothing to be ashamed of and I think you should teach him." She gave them each a kiss. "I'm going to go talk to your aunt and uncle."

She forced herself to walk slowly from the terrace and into the King's apartments, resisting the urge to race to the stables and take a horse and head straight for Rivendell that instant. Lothiriel saw her come in and noted the strained look. "Eowyn?" She hurried over to her sister-in-law and took her hand. "Are you all right?" Leading Eowyn to a chair she sat down beside her, keeping a tight hold on her hand. "What's wrong?"

"I have to leave for Rivendell, 'Thiri." Eowyn spoke in a determined voice. "Today. I must. Can the girls stay with you? I must go, but I must go alone, do you understand?" She looked at her as if she expected Lothiriel to try to persuade her to stay. The Queen of Rohan had lived with Eomer long enough to recognize the look she now saw in his sister's eye but in truth she would not have tried to keep Eowyn in Edoras regardless. When she had first arrived and told them all that had happened, Lothiriel knew it would only be a short time before she continued on to Rivendell. She had watched Eowyn and Faramir's relationship for years, and knew they could not be parted for long. Now she simply nodded her head and patted Eowyn's hand.

"Of course, I understand. But don't leave today. It's late. First thing tomorrow morning." Eowyn seemed to droop in the chair.

"I miss him so much, 'Thiri. Even if he is – " she broke off. "I have to see him."

Lothiriel put an arm around her and drew her head down on her shoulder. "I know. It's all right," she said softly. "But don't let yourself get all upset. Didn't you say the Elf's last letter to Aragorn said he was doing better? And now that Estel has been found, I'm sure that can only help." Eowyn nodded against her.

"If only Eomund would come home," she murmured. "If he would just talk to Faramir."

"He has to make that decision himself, and he's very stubborn, and can be quite heartless," said Lothiriel. "I see so much of Uncle Denethor in him. You never knew him but Eomund is much like him, and that his words doubly cruel to Faramir, I think." Eowyn nodded wordlessly and Lothiriel hugged her. "He needs to grow up a little, but you cannot force him, and you cannot change him, that can come only from within, only he can do that."

"I know," Eowyn said dully. Lothiriel gave her another hug and stood up. "Well, then, it's a long way to Rivendell, let's get started packing. I'll tell Eomer you'll need a horse and an escort." Eowyn got to her feet, wiping at her eyes with her fingers and looking embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm usually not so emotional."

Lothiriel shook her head. "I know that, Eowyn. You have been through a terrible time these last few months. It's certainly understandable if you get a little upset." She looked into Eowyn's face, her grey eyes serious and Eowyn saw the uncanny resemblance to Faramir and the pang of his absence hit her again. "I just want you and Faramir and your family to get through this, and whatever I or Eomer can do to help, we'll do it." Eowyn gulped back a sob and let Lothiriel pull her close, rub her back soothingly. When Eowyn drew back self-consciously Lothiriel turned toward the guest chamber she had been using. "Let's get your things together."

* * *

Pippin opened his eyes with a start and realized he had fallen asleep once more. The chair beside him was empty, but he could hear the quiet sound of someone moving books somewhere so with a grin and a luxurious stretch he got up from the chair he had been seated in and started through the shelves of books in the library at Rivendell.

"Faramir?" He called quietly, the idea of shouting in the library somehow unthinkable. "Where are you?" He didn't really expect an answer, knew that once Faramir got into a book he would be oblivious to any sound not bellowed directly into his ear. His suggestion that Celeborn ask for Faramir's help in the library had been successful, and they had spent many days since among the dusty books and tattered scrolls. Faramir had agreed to assist in copying the oldest ones merely to be polite in the beginning, but as the days passed Pippin could see him becoming interested almost against his will. Often the scroll he was copying was some ancient tale that he had never heard before, or knew only a part of, and it would send him off on a hunt through the shelves for more information. He had even hauled some of the disintegrating texts back to his room to read late in the evening and both Pippin and Celeborn were pleased with themselves.

The weeks at Rivendell were at last beginning to show a change in the Steward. A good change. He had put on some weight thanks to the elvish food and Pippin's insistence that every meal be observed and appreciated. The dark circles under his eyes were not gone entirely, but they were lessened, as a result of, among other things, a little more sleep and an almost daily walk with the Elf Lord among the woods and gardens. And best of all, in Celeborn's mind, he had begun speaking of his grief.

As Pippin had suspected, personal conversation came more easily to Faramir when he had some delicate piece of parchment before him as a distraction. He and Pippin would begin talking about the story it told and that would often lead to discussions of other things, and suddenly, Pippin would find the Man speaking of something he knew would have been politely avoided if he had asked outright. At those times the hobbit would clamp his mouth shut and let him talk, and in such a way Faramir's carefully buried grief and sadness were quietly drawn out little by little.

Now, Pippin turned the corner and nearly fell over the Prince of Ithilien, seated cross-legged on the floor with his head bent over a dusty volume, reading softly to himself. "What are you doing on the floor?" ask Pippin as he plopped down beside him.

"Do you know the story of the Akallabeth?" asked Faramir abruptly, looking over at Pippin with a strange look on his face.

Pippin had never heard of it but he tried to look thoughtful for a moment. "Um, no, I don't think so."

"It's a story about King Isildur." Faramir placed his finger carefully along the story in the ancient text. "The book in Minas Tirith only has the beginning, but the entire story is here." He ran his finger across the page, reading quietly. "You know some of the story, surely. Isildur founded the Kingdom of Gondor, with his brother, and fought by his father Elendil's side in the Last Alliance." Pippin nodded seriously as if he indeed knew the entire story although he had little more than some vague memory from years ago when he and Merry had accompanied Frodo to Rivendell with the Ring. But he could see the story had Faramir's total attention and so he listened closely as he continued.

"That story is in the book at Minas Tirith," said Faramir, "but there is more, here. Isildur's grandfather, Amandil, saw the race of Men fall to the seductions of Sauron, and learned of his plan to destroy the Two Trees of Valinor. Isildur risked his life stealing a fruit from the White Tree. It was an ancestor of the tree that grows in Minas Tirith now." Faramir turned the page and Pippin couldn't help smiling at his intense scrutiny of the book but when he looked up the hobbit was taken aback at the look of intense longing in his eyes. "Do you think that it is true?"

"True?" Pippin was puzzled. "I suppose. Why wouldn't it be?"

Faramir laid the book down on the floor in front of him and leaned back against the shelf. "I don't know. I want it to be true. It intrigues me, I suppose. The idea of the love between the grandfather, father and son. Of generations knowing each other. The sacrifices made, the loyalty." He closed his eyes and rubbed them, and Pippin wondered if it was from concentrating on the book or if he had not slept the night before. Since the news of Estel's discovery had arrived he had been sleeping better, but there were still some bad nights. "I never knew my grandfather," Faramir said in a soft voice. "And the older I get, I realize I never really knew my father. He belonged to Gondor, not me. Not even Boromir. And my sons and daughters never knew him, or their uncle, or Eowyn's parents, even she can barely remember them, just as I hardly remember my mother. We seem so alone sometimes. It doesn't seem right, somehow."

"It's not right," said Pippin, shaking his head, thinking of his many relations in the Shire and wondering what it would be like to have no one. "But those were difficult times. That's behind us now. You have had a chance to really know your children, haven't you? And you've got a grandchild coming soon. You'll know him, too. Or her."

"I suppose." Faramir sighed, opened his eyes. "I'm not sure I really do know my children, though, Pippin. Not any more."

"They're growing up," said Pippin decisively. "Becoming their own people. I see it with my own boy. You can't avoid it." He gave Faramir a gentle poke. "You don't want to, really, you know." He was rewarded with a tiny smile, one of several he had received in recent days and his heart leaped.

"You're right." The smile faded. "Except Bara. He will always be twenty." Pippin cursed himself as he saw the sadness come over his friend again.

"Accidents happen, Faramir," he said. "That was not your fault."

"I know." Faramir's voice was hushed and his fingers brushed across the book before him again. "But maybe Eomund was right, maybe I should have let Bara resign from the army."

"Maybe's don't help anything," Pippin said firmly. They had discussed this topic over and over again and Pippin could see it was still eating away at Faramir even though he always answered the same way, as he did now. "You cannot change the past, no matter how much you might want. And it was not your fault. Eomund was wrong to say what he did."

"He loved him so much." Faramir looked over at the hobbit and a sad smile was on his mouth. "They were so close, from the time Bara was three or four, they did everything together. Played, rode, ate, slept." He fell silent and Pippin suspected he was remembering another beloved brother. "It kills a part of you," Faramir finally said in the smallest whisper. "To lose someone you love, who loved you."

The hobbit reached over and patted the Man's larger hand. "I am sure you are right." There was silence as Pippin tried to give Faramir time to grieve without letting him fall into despair. "But you have others who love you, too, now," he finally reminded him and Faramir nodded. "Including your son. He just needs a little time." They sat quietly for a long time, the hush of the library folded around them like a blanket and to Faramir it was a safe, comfortable feeling, a familiar one that he had cherished all his life, and he felt at peace for a moment.

"I need to talk to Eomund." He rested his head back against the cracked leather books behind him. "I don't want this thing between us to become worse. For us to end up like my father and I, always so careful around one another, measuring each word, each look." He suddenly looked over at Pippin. "I miss home." The hobbit gave him a sympathetic smile. "I miss Eowyn," Faramir continued, rubbing his dusty hands together and frowning. "I miss – " He started to say more but then unexpectedly grimaced and gave Pippin a severe look that had a hint of his old humor in it. "You are a sly one, Master Peregrin Took. You sit there quietly while I ramble on in ways I never would with anyone else."

Pippin saw the moment had passed and he didn't try to recover or force it, only grinned and stood up. "Then I'm glad I'm not anyone else." He looked around them, trying to gauge the time of day by the amount of sunlight coming through the windows above them. "Surely it is close to lunchtime by now. Are you hungry?" Faramir shook his head. "Oh, come on now," Pippin coaxed. "It's been hours since we ate."

"You go on. I'll stay here a bit longer." Faramir got to his feet, still holding the book. "I want to read the rest of this."

"Hmm." Pippin eyed him suspiciously, trying to gauge his mood, unsure if he wanted to leave him alone. "All right," he said finally. "But I'll be back after I eat." Faramir nodded and started back through the shelves toward the desk he had been using.

* * *

The door to the library gave a slight thud as it closed and Faramir heard the footsteps advancing along the wider space between the main shelves. "I suppose you've brought a plate of samples?" he said without looking up. "A little bit of everything that I must try?"

"No, I've brought only myself."

Faramir's head jerked up and he looked behind him and a little cry was forced from him as he leaped to his feet and stared at Eowyn. She stood on the dark red rug before the library window, the sunshine making a golden aura about her, as if she were some otherworldly creature, and Faramir approached her slowly, fearfully, as if she might disappear from before his eyes at any moment. She smiled at him and held out her hand and that broke the spell. He was beside her in seconds, his arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair, holding her so tight he was crushing the breath from her. "Eowyn," he whispered as he hugged her against him. "Eowyn."

"My love," she whispered, twining her fingers through his hair and pressing her face against his shoulder. "Faramir, my love."

"I've missed you," he said in a hushed voice, reaching over to stroke her cheek and trace his fingers down her chin. "So much." He turned her face up to him and kissed her, softly, tentatively, at first, as though he was still unsure if she was real or not, but she kissed him back, encouraging him, and he responded, kissing her with all of the love and tenderness she knew so well. Tenderness she had feared she might never see or feel again and she laughed from the sheer joy of having him near her. When he had finished kissing her he hugged her again and then led her over to the cushioned bench beneath the window and they sat, staring at one another until they both gave a little laugh of embarrassment and the sound of Faramir's happiness, a sound Eowyn had not heard for months, put a thrill through her, and she leaned over and kissed him again. "I've missed you, too," she said softly. "How are you?"

He held her hands between his, gently running his fingers across hers, and didn't look up. "Better." There was a long silence and she knew he did not want to talk about it. He finally looked up at her. "How is everyone?"

"Everyone is fine," she said quietly. "Everyone sends their love."

"Everyone?" He sounded suspicious. Eowyn saw the hopeful look in his eye as he looked at her and she hesitated. Faramir sighed and dropped her hands and stood up.

"It's not what you think." Eowyn rose and took his hand again. "Eomund is away, on special duty for the King."

"Special duty. What kind of special duty?"

Eowyn clasped his hand tightly and leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat, inhaling the smell of him. "He is searching for Estel."

"Estel?" Faramir looked down at her and frowned. "I thought Estel was in Edoras? Your letter said – "

"She is, she is in Edoras," Eowyn reassured him. "Aragorn called Eomund home from Pelargir the day she disappeared and charged him with finding her. He's been looking for her ever since. The last report he sent to Aragorn he was in Umbar. A notice has been sent to all of the governor's offices to let him know she has been found. He'll be home, soon." She put her arms around him and buried her face in his tunic, felt his arms cautiously encircle her and his cheek rest on her head. "He was upset to find you were gone," she said quietly into the cloth of his tunic.

"Hmm."

"He was." She straightened, still keeping her hands on his waist, and her green eyes met his. "Elboron said his face went white when Aragorn told him you had gone away, were not well."

Faramir looked away, not wanting to think about either the King's meeting with Eomund or why he himself had been sent to Rivendell. At length he made a small noise in the back of his throat and took Eowyn's hands in his, keeping his eyes down. "Eowyn, I'm sorry, for all that happened. I never meant to hurt you, never meant for it get so bad." As he spoke his eyes sporadically flicked up to her face, searching, beseeching. "I don't know what happened."

"I'm sorry, too," she said quietly. "Sorry I got angry and said hurtful things. I was afraid." He pulled her close and gave her another hug and she pressed herself against him. "And I know what happened. We had a terrible thing happen to our family, and it hurt all of us; it hurt me and it hurt you, and then Eomund hurt you more." She saw him begin to shake his head, knew he would not allow himself that excuse, and hurried on. "He was wrong, Faramir! It was not your fault or your doing. It just happened and there is nothing else to say." She pressed against him, put her arms around him and held him tightly. He kissed her forehead and Eowyn was glad to see the dark shadows that had haunted his eyes for months in Ithilien were lessened, and she returned his kiss. He looked down at her, suddenly thoughtful.

"Are you here to take me home?" he asked, and she could tell from his voice he was both hoping to return to Ithilien and yet fearful at the same time and she thought back to what Aragorn had told her when she left Minas Tirith.

"He'll know, Eowyn, if it is time yet," he had said reassuringly, shaking his head at her concerns and questions. "Celeborn's last letter said he is improving, but as much as I want him home, I will not rush him, and neither should you. If he is not ready, he must stay. Just ask. He'll know."

Now she stared at him, examining his grey eyes carefully. She wanted him home, desperately, wanted to try to pick up their life, but not if it meant a return to the way it had been before he had come to Rivendell. "Are you ready to go?" she asked, not sure what answer she preferred.

Faramir met her gaze without flinching and she saw he knew and understood her thoughts, shared some of her worries. At last he shook his head. "No," he said. "Not yet." He squeezed her hand. "But I want you to stay."

She smiled. "Of course I'll stay, my love."

* * *

They ate dinner that night in his room, together, Eowyn having refused to even consider moving into a larger one. "You've been here for weeks," she said. "You're comfortable here, why change?"

"It's not large enough for us both," he said, motioning around him as if to prove his point.

"It's got enough chairs, and a bed," she answered. "What more does it need?" She sat on the bed and smiled sweetly at him. "As long as it's with you, it's perfect." And he had returned the smile, perhaps not quite as effortlessly, but still she had felt her heart leap when she saw it.

So they ate and she told him of home. Of Sam's progress in the army, and Theoden and Elabet's preparations for the soon coming baby. She told him of Aragorn's high praise for Elboron , of Alasse, and of Estel's escapades, and that a fair-haired Rider seemed destined to join their circle soon. He listened with a regretful expression. "So much has happened, and I missed it. I should not have left."

"No." Eowyn surprised herself with the force of her words. "I am glad you did." She reached across the table and took his hand, squeezed it tightly. "That did not come out the right way, did it? I meant I have hated you being away, but you don't know how happy I am to see you looking better." He dropped his head in embarrassment and she put a finger under his chin and raised it and smiled into his eyes. "I could not bear seeing you so unhappy and whatever it takes to keep that from happening again, I will do it." She laid her fingers along his cheek and seemed to consider. "And so will you, won't you?" He reached up to pull her hand to his lips and kissed it and nodded his head slightly. "Yes, my lady" and she thrilled because she heard the faintest teasing in his voice.

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

THANKS for great Beta'ing - Clairon, Princess Faz & Catherine Maria, and to Cressida for information on the Akallabeth, a barely mentioned reference in the Silmarillion.


	9. A Determination

**Note: **Sorry! I tried to get this up before Thanksgiving, but between school and life and the shenanigans at fanfic, it just didn't happen! BUT, finally all seems well, so we are moving on...

* * *

Chapter 9 – A Determination:

* * *

It was Eowyn's third night at Rivendell before the nightmare came. The other nights, after sitting and talking, they had gone to bed and Faramir had slept soundly, his arms wrapped lovingly around Eowyn. But the third night the dream came once more, bolting him upright in the darkness, frightened, disoriented and gasping for air. He usually woke from the dream in a cold sweat, the images fresh in his mind, but without much noise or thrashing about, only the awful jerk that brought him back to consciousness. That night however, whether because he had let down his guard during the weeks of sleeping alone and cried out, or Eowyn was sleeping lighter because she was in strange place; whatever the reason, when he finally was awake enough to get his bearings she was sitting up in bed beside him, holding him by the shoulder with her hand along his face. "Faramir! Faramir! Wake up!" She shook his shoulder gently. "Wake up." 

He stared at her with wide, unseeing eyes for a moment, feeling the sweat on his face, feeling his heart racing in his chest. "It's a dream," she said softly, putting her arms around him and holding him close. "A dream."

Faramir shuddered and leaned against her, let her stroke his back and shoulders gently, murmuring soft words of assurance, then went to swing his legs out of bed, but Eowyn held him back. "Don't go. Please. Stay here with me."

He shook his head. "I – I don't want to disturb you. I'll just go outside." He quickly headed for the balcony and stood there, clutching at the railing and taking deep breaths, feeling sick and dizzy. He jumped when her arms stole around him from behind.

"I won't let you start this again," she said firmly. "I won't let you go off by yourself." Gently she turned him until he was facing her. "I love you, Faramir. I've loved you for over half of my life. Don't close yourself away from me. Let me help you through this."

He could barely see her face in the dark, but he could picture the determined expression he knew so well. "It's just a bad dream," he said, wincing at the shakiness of his voice.

"Tell me."

"It's not important – "

"Tell me." Eowyn's voice wasn't demanding, just persistent, and she laid her head on his chest, hoping he would be more inclined to speak if he didn't have to look at her. His arms went around her in response and they stood quietly on the balcony. Eowyn could hear a nightingale quietly singing in the forest nearby and the far away murmur of the Bruinen in the valley. They stood there and the moments passed and Eowyn vowed to herself she would stand there until morning if it took that long. Finally, Faramir began to speak.

"It always starts the same," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm in the throne room and I have to give a report to Father. I'm young, twenty, twenty-five, and no matter what I say it's not right and he's angry, and I don't know what to do to please him." Eowyn felt a tear slip from her eyes at the fact that Denethor still cast such a long shadow on his son. "He's unhappy with me, for whatever reason," he continued, "and then it changes. Usually it's Boromir, sometimes it's Eomund or Barahir. Sometimes men from the Rangers, men killed long ago. Once it was even my uncle, Imrahil." She felt him tremble, and tightened her grip around him as he went on. "Whoever it is tells me I'm a murderer, a killer, that I'm – " his voice broke and he stopped a moment to collect himself. "Eowyn, you don't want to hear this, it's not – "

Her hand on his lips stopped him and he looked down, barely able to discern her outline in the darkness. "Faramir, my love, tell me. Let me share this burden with you, as we have shared so many others. Together we can overcome this." She wanted him close to her, to listen to and believe her words, so she sat down on one of the balcony chairs and pulled on his hand, urging him to follow, and he surprised her by lowering himself to the floor in front of her so that he sat between her knees where he could wrap his arms around her leg and rest his head against her. Since his mother's death and his father's favoritism of his older brother had denied Faramir affectionate physical touches as a child and young man, he had always treasured Eowyn's caresses, sought them eagerly and she had happily complied. He might hold himself aloof from most people, but his wife knew the hunger in him for a loving touch was never quite quenched, and now, understanding what he was seeking, she circled one arm around him and began to stroke his dark hair with the other.

Faramir let his head rest against her for a moment and exalted in the contact, letting the touch of her hand slowly loosen his taut muscles before he took a deep breath and went on. "Whoever it is, they say I'm a murderer, I'm responsible, it's my fault."

"What is your fault?" she asked and felt him shake his head in frustration.

"I don't know! I can't understand what they are telling me, only that it's because of some failure of mine, and they hate me and they say I'm just like him."

"Just like him?"

"Father. They say I'm just like Father. No matter who it is in the dream or where I go or how hard I try to get away, they're always there, saying it. Just like him. You're just like him." His voice mimicked those he heard in his dreams and Eowyn shivered at the hatred in the tone. "I can't get away. I try. I run, I look for a horse, but," he shook his head in defeat. "They're always there."

The soft sounds of the night drifted around them as he talked quietly, telling her of the dream, the fear, the terror that he knew in his waking hours was unreal yet still haunted him each night and she felt him shaking against her. He told her how the dream came to him nearly every night in only slightly different form, how it had started in Ithilien not long after the funeral, and how he had, in desperation, begun to avoid sleep in an effort to keep the nightmare at bay, without success, for the words and the images, once set in motion, then were able to disturb his days as well.

Eowyn could only keep her arms tight around him and listen as he spoke of the men haunting him, father, brother, son, and their words of accusation and disappointment as they released him into the clutches of the Anduin each night. "And then the water pulls me down, and I wake up, like this." he finished tonelessly and Eowyn felt him give a little shiver, then another, and she gently moved her hands across him, letting her touch calm him.

She stayed quiet for a while, thinking of the terrible strain he had been living under, the weight of guilt and sorrow he had been carrying and she waited until she felt able to speak without her voice breaking. "It is only a dream, my love," she said at last. "Just a dream caused by everything that has happened." She waited, knowing there was something more, something unsaid.

He shook his head. "I don't know. The only other dreams I've ever had like this, this real, this often, are when I dream of the fall of Numenor and when I dreamed of the One Ring."

Sudden understanding came to her, a revelation and she looked down at him, her face glowing in the dim light of a sliver of moon that had gradually appeared from behind a cloud. "You think this is the same kind of dream as that of the Ring, don't you? A true dream, perhaps foretelling of things yet to come? And that frightens you."

He didn't answer and she knew she had guessed correctly. She shook her head emphatically. "It's not that kind of dream, Faramir."

He gave her an uncertain look. "How do you know?"

"Because." She could see the hunger for reassurance in his eyes and she leaned down and kissed his cheek softly. "Because the other dreams are different. Numenor truly happened, while the other was full of things you had never heard of, yes? Imladris, Halflings, tokens. It spoke of places and deeds you knew nothing about. None of it meant anything to you. It was truly a dream to guide you, to speak to you." She brushed her lips across his head. "This dream is everything you know, your father, your brother, your sons. It is made up of the fears, disappointments and tragedies of your life, the worst moments, that you would give anything to change and cannot." Her hand moved through his hair, gently stroking, gently brushing it back and letting it fall again. "It is sprung from sadness and sorrow, and that is all, Faramir."

He sighed and she could feel him settle against her a bit and she kept moving her hand tenderly through his hair, murmuring soft words. "It will pass, my love. Fear not. It is only a dream, nothing more, and it will pass. The only power it has is what you give it."

"How do you know?" he asked again, without looking up, and Eowyn hugged him again and could hear the slightest bit of hope in his voice.

"Because you have told me, now. And we will talk about it, and bad dreams lose their power when you talk about them." It was what she had always told her children and the fact that it had calmed childish nightmares made it no less true for her husband's in her mind. She leaned down and kissed him again, knew he had given her a great gift by telling her, trusting her with this horror that wore at him constantly. "I wish I would have known before."

"I didn't want to tell you," he said, his voice softly distant. "I didn't want you to worry."

She smiled to herself. He would not tell her the dreams to spare her worry, apparently not realizing she would worry about her husband not sleeping or wandering around the house at all hours of the night. How she wished now she had pushed open the library door that night when she first heard him weeping and confronted him. Perhaps they would have been spared all these last months had brought. But she immediately realized it would not have helped, it would have been as she had imagined, Faramir defensive and horrified at her intrusion, more harsh words, more wounds. No, things must move at their own pace, and he had had to come to her in his own time. In her arms Faramir settled against her and sighed.

"I don't want to become my father, Eowyn." He spoke quietly, and she hugged him, stroked his hair once again.

"You won't. You aren't." She reassured him. She knew she spoke the truth, knew he had almost destroyed himself these last few months as he fought despair and sadness, refusing to give in until it overwhelmed him.

"But Bara is dead," he said, his voice hushed. "Perhaps Eomund was right. If I had allowed him to leave the Army..."

Eowyn held him and shook her head. "No, Faramir. Bara's death had nothing to do with being in the Army, you know that. It was an accident, a stupid, useless, meaningless accident that was no one's fault." She kept up her gentle stroking. "Like young women dying in childbirth. Like that man in Eomer's court who choked to death on a piece of meat. Stupid, stupid things that just happen in life, and no one is to blame." Faramir felt her hands on him, smoothing away the fear and worries, silencing the accusations that filled his mind constantly, and he let himself relax into her embrace.

"You are not your father, my love," she said firmly. "You did not send your son out knowing he would probably die. You have not injured your children with harsh words and unattainable expectations. You have not lavished your love on one and withheld it from another. You are not Denethor of Gondor." She held him close. "You know who you are," she said softly. "And so do I. Trust in that person."

"Aragorn said that," he murmured. "The day I left, that I knew who I was, and he did, too."

"He is a wise man," Eowyn said, her hand brushed back his hair from his face where it lay against her and she caressed him lovingly, her fingers moving slowly from his temple to his jaw and back again. "He loves you, Faramir, as do I, and we know the man you are, and you are not your father." Her voice was low and she kept up her gentle touch, tracing her fingers along his face. "You are a good man, noble, wise, caring, and I love you." He nestled against her and they stayed that way for a long time, motionless except for the slow, even motion of her hand. She could feel him growing heavier, his weight pressing against her, and knew he was drifting back to sleep and she roused him gently, "Faramir, come to bed," and he rose and followed her sleepily and lay down beside her, gathering her into his arms so that her back was against his chest, and they fell asleep together.

He woke her in the dim half-light before dawn with soft, sweet kisses and she smiled and turned to face him and held him in her arms as he pressed his body close to hers. They had not made love since the day Barahir had died, and the frenzied, frantic coupling they had pursued that night had been more a desperate search for something to blot out the pain and try to drown the sorrow than an act of love. Then, in the days afterward, grief and the nightmares and the black weight of depression had first driven and then kept them apart. But as the sun began its climb over the horizon it turned the sky to gold and the birds awoke and warbled their small songs of joy, and Faramir and Eowyn loved each other slowly and tenderly, and another piece of Faramir's heart was healed.

* * *

Eowyn and Celeborn sat together on the long porch of the Last Homely House, watching the odd twosome walking along the stone bridge and Celeborn glanced over at her.

"I thought perhaps once you arrived he might spend less time with Pippin," he said.

"Oh no, I want him to talk to him." Eowyn looked horrified at the idea that her presence might keep Faramir and Pippin apart. "As much as he wants," she said. "Somehow Pippin can get him to speak of things that he will not with any other person, the dark places that he always tries to keep hidden."

Celeborn smiled and gave her an approving nod. "Faramir needs to be unneeded," he said cryptically, his smile widening at her puzzled frown. "His entire life has been one of duty. Duties he has often welcomed," he hastened to say, seeing Eowyn's frown deepen. "He loves you, and your children, and has no greater joy than being a husband and a father, while serving Gondor is not only what he was bred for but what he excels at and enjoys. But," The Elf Lord set his cup on the table and crossed his hands before him. "Duties, no matter how much you love and enjoy them, wear on a person." He motioned toward Faramir and Pippin, now walking back toward the house. "Pippin demands nothing of Faramir. He simply talks and listens."

"I tried to get him to talk, you don't know how hard I tried!"

Celeborn shook his head and retrieved his cup of tea. "But you had suffered the same loss as he. He did not want to add to your grief with his."

"It would not have added!"

Celeborn gave Eowyn a sympathetic smile, had seen soon after her arrival the depth of her love for Faramir. "I know that. And I think he knows it now, Eowyn. But when we are grief-stricken, we often do not think clearly or logically." He sipped his tea and watched the Man and the hobbit stop to examine a patch of dark orange flowers in the grass. "If you could have seen when Pippin arrived," the Elf smiled at the memory and he looked at Eowyn. "He arrived talking and just seemed to carry Faramir along with him." His face grew thoughtful. "Pippin needed nothing from Faramir. In fact, he was giving Faramir something, demands that were easily met; come here, eat this, lie down. Nothing to think about or decide. Nothing to be responsible for."

Eowyn sipped her own tea and looked pensively at the tablecloth. "But when I tried that at home, he was angry with me." Celeborn could hear the bewilderment in her voice and he tried to explain.

"You are his wife. You love him and he loves you. But this was a time when he needed someone who loved him in a different way, someone whose love was not important to him." He could see Eowyn thought he was being quite harsh and he sighed, wishing he were better at expressing what he knew to be true. "I do not mean he does not love Pippin, he does, as Pippin loves him. But they have a different relationship than you do with him, and you should be thankful for it. It was not anything I or you or Aragorn did to reach him in that dark place. Pippin drew him out."

"I know," said Eowyn quietly, a sob catching in her throat. "And I am thankful, Celeborn. I can see the change, and I know now he will be all right." She raised teary eyes to the Elf. "I was not sure a few months ago."

Celeborn nodded and finished his tea. As he set his cup on the table he looked at Eowyn curiously. "Is he still having the nightmares?"

"How did you know about those?" Her green eyes showed her surprise and the Elf saw she was hesitant to speak of the dreams that disturbed Faramir's sleep so many nights.

His mouth quirked. "He mentioned them once to Pippin weeks ago, but would say nothing more. I wondered if they had stopped yet." He was almost sure they had not. There were still days when Faramir refused to have breakfast with the Elf or Pippin. Sometimes Eowyn joined them, sometimes she did not, but often when she did Celeborn could see the shadow of fatigue on her face and knew she had lost sleep that night.

Eowyn returned her own cup to the table and shook her head. "No, he still has them. Perhaps not quite as often." She gazed at Faramir and Pippin as they resumed their stroll toward the porch. "He never told me about them at home, but here, now, when he wakes up, he tells me." Turning to Celeborn she shuddered. "Always the same thing, awful, horrible, hateful dreams." She closed her eyes and her lips trembled as she thought of the hate-filled visions that troubled her husband's sleep, and she looked at Celeborn hesitantly. "I have told him they will eventually stop…do you think I am right?"

"Yes, I believe so." The Elf had pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Now that you are here, and he is sharing them with you, they will, in time, fade."

"I hope you are right," Eowyn said, smiling as her husband approached the porch. "I will not let him return to Ithilien until they are gone," she said quietly to the Elf as she rose from her chair to greet him. "He must stay until he is free of them."

* * *

* * *

Faramir and Eowyn walked with Pippin to the stone bridge, holding hands, and stood waiting while he climbed upon the pony's back. They had made their goodbyes at the house and there had been hugs and kisses, but as he prepared to leave them, Pippin suddenly flung himself down from the saddle and ran to embrace them both once again. Eowyn laughed as she bent to put her arms around him, holding him tightly and planting a soft kiss on his small pointed ear. "Thank you, Pippin, for all you have done," she whispered. He reddened with pleasure and embarrassment and grinned as he pulled away from her.

She had thanked him over and over these last few weeks whenever they had a few moments alone. Thanked him for coming to Rivendell and the time spent with Faramir, even as he had protested he had done nothing special, nothing except be a friend, and Eowyn had smiled a bit wistfully and explained that while her husband had numerous acquaintances, he had few friends. She did not know what Elvish wisdom had caused Celeborn to send Legolas to the Shire, and she did not care. Faramir was better, and the Elf Lord had assured her, and she could see for herself, the hobbit had been directly responsible, and she made sure to let him know of her gratitude whenever she could.

Now Pippin drew back and kissed her on the cheek. "It has been so lovely to see you, my lady. You are as beautiful as ever." Eowyn laughed again at his cheekiness and held out a disparaging handful of hair, gazing at the grey strands mixed among the gold.

"You are a liar, Pippin."

"He always speaks true," said Faramir behind her and he smiled down at the hobbit. "And for that I am truly grateful." He knelt down and Pippin loosened his hold on Eowyn to press close to the Man, winding his arms around his neck as Faramir gently hugged him. "Truly grateful, Pippin," he said softly and gave him a squeeze that Pippin returned fervently.

"Oh, I must go," he said sadly, pulling away from Faramir. "I want to go home, but I hate to leave!" He turned and once more mounted the pony, gathered the reins resolutely into his small hands. "I'll write as soon as I get home," he promised. "You write too. Let me know how everyone is! Let me know about the new baby! Send me an invitation to the wedding!" Eowyn frowned and rolled her eyes and he laughed happily. The pony clattered across the bridge and they watched until he was only a tiny shape on the horizon. He disappeared from view at the top of the valley cliff and they turned back toward the house.

"I shall miss him," said Eowyn. "He makes me laugh."

Faramir stared at the empty sky for a moment. "He saved my life, again." Eowyn squeezed his hand and cuddled close, laid her head against his shoulder. They walked along in silence, listening to the sound of the river and she could tell he was thinking and she waited. At last they stopped, along the path in the trees, and Faramir faced her.

"I am like Pippin," he said softly. "I want to go home, but I don't want to leave Rivendell." He looked away. "I am afraid."

"Then wait a little longer," said Eowyn. "Wait until you aren't afraid anymore." Her head was resting on his chest and she looked up at him. "Wait until the nightmares have gone," she suggested, saw him draw back a little and his eyes shift as he considered the suggestion. "Wait until you have gone a month with no bad dreams."

His grey eyes grew distant and she could see him thinking. "I need to get back to Minas Tirith," he said quietly. "I am sure there is so much that needs done, things the King needs taken care of…"

"Faramir." She shook her head. "Aragorn wants you well. That is his most important need. He would not want you going back before you are ready."

"I know. It's not just that. I miss…" He stared at the nearby trees and she knew he was missing the children, wanting to talk to Elboron, see how Sam was faring, meet Estel's beau, and most of all, talk to Eomund, work things out between them. At last he heaved a sigh. "What if it is a long time?"

"Then it is a long time," she replied, leaning against him once more. "I told you, I will do whatever I must to make sure you are well and stay well. If we must stay in Rivendell for a year, I will do it. Because – " she smiled up at him. "I love you, and I don't want to ever see you so sad again." He returned her smile with a slow one of his own and then leaned down to kiss her. They started toward the house again, their arms linked together.

"I do not want you to think I did not speak of things because I did not trust you, or think you would understand." He looked down at their clasped hands and turned hers palm up, grazed his fingers across it. "I did not want to burden you with my problems. But Pippin…" He shrugged, looked up at her with an apologetic and somewhat confused expression. "He is …just Pippin, and he just showed up, and stayed." His eyes were searching her face, hopeful that she understood. "And we would talk, and I would find myself telling him things…"

"My love." Eowyn shook her head. He had told her the same thing several times since her arrival, and she had always answered the same way. "I am glad Pippin came. I am glad you talked to him. And I shall always be indebted to him." She reached up to trail her fingers across his face. "He found you in a place where none of the rest of us could, and helped you find your way out." She stroked his cheek with her fingers and he stopped walking and closed his eyes and covered her hand with his, drawing it to his lips to kiss the palm and fingers gently and Eowyn let her hand rest against his face. "I will never able to thank Pippin enough for helping you find yourself again, my love."

"I was so lost," he whispered. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, rubbing his cheek against hers. "In that dark place and I hurt so much, all I wanted was for it to stop. I didn't care how, if it would only go away." He kissed her softly on the hair and hugged her tighter.

Eowyn twined her fingers through his dark hair and held him against her. "You are found, now, my love. You are nearly through that dark place. Nearly through."

He nodded and they stood quietly on the path, listening to the faint trill of a bird in a nearby tree and the quiet murmur of the river and Faramir kissed her again. "It is so peaceful here." The small noises of the woods rustled around them as they stood there holding each other. At last Faramir buried his face in Eowyn's neck. "I still miss Bara," he whispered in a hushed voice, and Eowyn felt a tremor through her own heart.

"I know," she said softly. "I do, too." And they held each other and although she was grieving, Eowyn was glad to share her grief with her husband rather than have him lost and alone.

* * *

Eomund tried to stay out of trouble, and he succeeded. He kept his head down, never once trying to catch the captain's dark eyes. He kept his mouth shut, offering nothing more than a "yes, sir", or "no, sir" whenever he was addressed by an officer of the crew. He did his duties quickly, efficiently, and then volunteered afterward for anything extra. And four weeks passed without him being sent to the mast. His back healed, the ship moved through the water and stopped at the various ports on her circuitous route, and Mal grinned at him, told him he was proud of him, and Eomund was pleased. 

They talked, as they worked, and in their bunks at night, and along the deck in their off hours, and Eomund told the old man of his home and his family, and he admitted to both Mal and himself how much he missed them, and one day he realized he knew what he would do. He would go home, as soon as he could, and do as Mal had said. Go to the King, take whatever punishment was given, and then go find his father, and ask for forgiveness. He even invited Mal to come with him, but the old man just laughed. "I've shipped with the captain for fourteen years now. This is a good life for me, I've no need to set eyes on the White City. You go, boy. Go home to your family." And Eomund smiled and agreed and set his mind on reaching the day when the _Crescent Moon_ would dock in Umbar and he would be given his freedom.

* * *

They had expected to reach Pelargir again the day before, but a squall that night had blown them off course just enough that they were running behind and then in the evening the wind had died to a bare whisper that moved the ship along so slowly Eomund could have sworn they were moving backward. He had been on his best behavior, knowing that the Captain's eyes were on him, fearing a repeat of his last time in Pelargir, and Eomund was determined not to give it to him. Now he stood along the deck in the dusk and watched as the various goods to be delivered to the city were winched, carried and hauled from below decks or sorted from the jumbled piles tied down tightly on the main deck and made ready for unloading in the morning. 

He had checked the ropes, as was his duty, just last night before the storm. Checked them all, the huge ones coiled on the deck to be used by the winch, the smaller, smoother ones that would tighten or loosen the sails and the thick ones that fastened the cargo safely to the deck and kept it from rolling dangerously along the wooden floor of the ship. Eomund had checked them all and found nothing amiss. But sometime during the night, after the rain had ended, a mouse had chewed, nibbled away enough of the fiber to line her miniscule nest. A tiny amount, the merest gnawing away at the cord, but it was enough. Enough that when two crewmen had shoved several of the wooden crates together and wrapped the rope around them, it stretched a bit, unraveling the bitten-off ends of the cord even further, and that was enough that when the winch tightened and lifted the crates from the deck, raising them higher than a man's head so that they could clear the cargo hatch, the rope snapped.

It made a sound like a whip striking, a sharp crack that turned the head of every man in the crew to search for the source and try to escape any danger. Eomund heard it and saw the crates tilt simultaneously, saw the rope snapping through the air, whipping about as if it were a living thing, and then the crates began to fall to the deck. He shouted for the men below to move, get out of the way, and some, most did, but two were caught off guard, and crushed to the deck as the crates fell upon them, the sound echoing across the water and the deck of the ship. After the horrible thunder of tumbling, smashing wood ended there was silence as the crew stood about in shock, until Eomund's voice pierced their fog. "Get them out! Move those things! Hurry!" He shouted at them, and shoved them toward the pile of splintered wood and leaking boxes even as he waded in among them and started heaving the crates out of his way.

The first man they found had been lucky. The boxes had fallen haphazardly and one had landed on its side at just the perfect angle, shielding him from the others, so that he was lifted from the deck with only a broken finger and a bruised head. He laughed shakily as the others pulled him to his feet, his nervous laughter dying in his throat as the second man was reached. This other man had not been as fortunate. The heavy crates had smashed down upon him, crushing him into the deck, breaking bones and flattening his body so that it lay at a frightening, unnatural angle. Blood seeped from a dozen places and he gave a tortured moan when Eomund knelt on the deck and lifted his head into his arms. "Mal! Mal!" He cradled the old man's head against him and the pale blue eyes cracked open.

"Eomund," he whispered, blood dribbling from his mouth. "Didn't move fast enough. Guess I'm getting old. Don't cry, boy." He had seen the tears on Eomund's cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Eomund, his voice strained and rough. "The rope snapped, it's my fault, I should have checked them again. I never thought - it's my fault. I'm sorry."

The aged sailor gave him a weak smile, shook his head slightly and coughed up a mouthful of blood that Eomund gently wiped away. Mal reached up a broken, blood-covered hand and touched the younger man's face. "Not your fault, lad. Things happen. I told you that. Things you never planned on." He stiffened and gave a soft cry as the pain sharpened within him, and raised his eyes to Eomund again. "Promise me, Eomund. Promise me you'll go home."

"I promise." Eomund said softly, and held the old man close against him, as if he could hold the life in him. "I promise." Mal nodded in satisfaction and let his eyes close, took a gasping breath and was still. Eomund clutched the ruined body to him and felt the tears slide from his eyes into the black hair as the rest of the crew stood around him uncertainly, shifting on their feet and looking at each other. They all stepped back as the first mate pushed his way into their midst.

"What happened?" He looked at the scene before him.

"Rope broke," a crewman said timidly, pointing to the empty rope dangling from the winch. "The crates fell."

Bothlan crossed the deck and grabbed the rope, looked over the edges, inspected the rest of the apparatus, then turned back to the crew, still bunched around Eomund where he sat on the deck holding Mal's dead body. "Who inspected the rope?" He glanced around the men. "Whose duty was it?"

"Mine." Eomund loosened his grip and carefully placed Mal's body on the deck and got to his feet. He looked at Bothlan with wet eyes, the depths dark with remorse. "It was my duty." Bothlan looked at him, considering. He knew that Eomund was one of the most skilled men on board, that ropes sometimes snapped regardless of how many times they had been checked, and what had happened was nothing more than a terrible mishap, no one's fault and certainly not deliberate.

"Bothlan!" The Captain's voice came from the upper deck and the huge first mate raised his head to see hard black eyes fixed on Eomund. "Number Seven. You know the punishment," said the Captain in a harsh voice and the first mate nodded, turned to the younger man, whose eyes dropped to the deck as he gave an unconscious shudder and Bothlan knew Eomund, one of the few men on board who could read, had read the Ship's Rules posted at the bottom of the steps that led into the crew's quarters, the rules that set down requirements, expectations and punishments. Knew he had read Rule Number Seven: 'Causing the death of a fellow crewman. – 100 stripes.'

That rule was understood to mean fights, private matters that got out of hand or carefully planned murders, not the kind of tragedy that had happened here. It was written as a deterrent; with every man knowing one hundred stripes was a death sentence and because of its horrible promise, was rarely needed. The first mate had seen the friendship growing between the old man and the younger one, and knew that what had happened had been unintended even if Eomund was already blaming and inwardly punishing himself for Mal's death and he looked again at the Captain. "Sir?" Hoped he might relent this time, might take into account the Gondorian's dramatic turn around and his evident affection for the old sailor and excuse what was clearly an accident. The dark eyes never wavered. "Get on with it." Bothlan nodded and from the corner of his vision saw the Gondorian close his eyes and swallow.

The first mate reached out a huge hand to grasp him but Eomund shook it off and walked voluntarily across the deck and leaned against the main mast, his scarred back exposed, and pressed his face into the wood. He knew he would not leave the ship alive and at that moment, staring behind him at Mal's body as it lay on the blood-stained deck, it seemed of little importance.

Bothlan tied his hands with rope, keeping his own eyes locked on Eomund's as he did so. The rest of the crew gathered silently around them, most of them uneasy at the punishment, recognizing the accident for what it was, and convinced Eomund would not survive. The Captain looked down at them again. "Get to work," he growled, his quiet voice still able to send them scurrying back to their duties. "Clean up the deck. And throw the body overboard." He caught Bothlan's eye, saw the disapproval. "Do it," he said savagely before he turned away. The first mate finished tying the knots and then unexpectedly reached over and gripped Eomund's shoulder, a tiny gesture of regret and sympathy, and the Gondorian looked at him, nodded his understanding. Eomund knew Bothlan could not disobey his Captain, did not expect him to do so. What's more, he felt he deserved this punishment, if for no other reason than he had allowed Mal to die. That there was nothing he could have done was no comfort to him, and as he waited for the first stroke he understood how his father had felt about Barahir, the utter helplessness and yet the guilt and he thought again of his cruel words and he ground his face against the rough wood of the mast and silently begged for his father's forgiveness, knowing he would never make it home to ask for it now. The crew went about their duties without a sound, and Bothlan took the rod from its place above the cabin door, raised it above his head, and began. "One."

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

Again - Thanks to Catherine Maria for the last minute Beta, even if I didn't get it on fanfic then!! And to Clairon for all her encouragement and help. And all you great reviewers - kiss kiss - thank you!

* * *


	10. A Deliverance

* * *

Chapter 10 – A Deliverance:

* * *

His only thought was pain. Sheets of pain. An ocean of pain. Fire consuming him. Eomund could not keep a lucid thought in his head, the pain would not let him. He could not cry out, the pain would not let him draw enough breath. He could not escape it and he moaned and wept and cried as the searing tongues of flame devoured him and the white chills of fever shook his body. He was lying on his stomach, but when he tried to move he dimly realized his hands were tied above his head and he panicked and wrenched at the bonds that held him, pulling and twisting madly, desperate to free himself, sobbing with despair.

"Shh, shh, there now. It's going to be all right," a voice comforted. He collapsed and lay still, already exhausted from his efforts and listened. A woman's voice. A soft hand wiping his face with a cool, damp cloth. "Try to sleep." The cloth brushed across his face again and he whimpered. "Shh, now," the woman said.

"Mother?" Eomund wanted to open his eyes but could not, did not have the strength to spare as he fought against the pain as it raked its jagged teeth along his body. "Mother?"

"Shh, it's all right." The soft hand left his face and he suddenly felt something cool on his back, cool and wet and wondrously soothing. The pain softened, faded until it was just a dim sensation along the edges of his mind and he sighed and relaxed. "There, better?" The woman's hand was back, gently smoothing his hair along his temples and caressing his forehead. "Swallow," she said, lifting his head slightly as a cold, bitter liquid was spooned into him, and he did so reflexively. "Good. Now go to sleep," she crooned, keeping her fingers lightly moving across his face and Eomund obeyed her, sliding down into a dark, dreamless sleep where pain and torment were mercifully blotted out and the fire along his spine was quenched.

Time passed but he did not know the passing of time. All he knew was the thick, welcomed insensibility of drugged sleep and the throbbing, burning agony that always returned to bite and tear and scour across his back until the woman would come again and bring her coolness, cool liquid in a spoon, cool hands spreading the blessed numbing chill along his flesh and he could draw a grateful breath and fade into an exhausted slumber before the pain crept back to gnaw at him again. Her voice and hands comforted him as much as the medicine she administered and he held onto them as a lifeline and did as she asked; lay still, slept, swallowed whatever she offered, and the days passed and Eomund lived.

He awoke confused, unable to recognize anything around him. He was still on his stomach, in a low bed in a small room with a tiny window. Not on the _Crescent Moon,_ he realized, feeling no motion beneath him and noting the stone walls. Turning his head stiffly he looked around him but the room appeared empty save for himself, the bed, a small wooden table and a chair beside the bed. A wooden door to his left was closed, while golden afternoon sunshine poured in through the window. Nothing looked familiar and the mere act of moving his head to see had left him worn out, and so he let it sink back down and his eyes closed and he fell into a light sleep. Sometime later the sound of the door opening startled him awake and he tried to rise up from the bed, gasping at the pain that ripped across him and horrifying the older woman who had entered. "Oh no, no," she said, crossing the few steps across the floor and gently pressing him back down. "Lay still." His weakness was so overwhelming he had no choice but to obey and he lay motionless on the bed as she fussed over his back, removing the dressing and applying new medicine. Once again the soothing coolness spread over him and Eomund's tense muscles loosened as she worked.

"Where am I?" he asked after a while, noting how weak and shaky his voice was.

"You are in the House of Mercy, in Pelargir," she said softly, her hands deftly working the healing balm into his ravaged flesh.

"House of Mercy?" Eomund had heard of it, but he had never visited the complex of several buildings in the center of the city, staffed and supported by a group of older noblewomen; a complex that, recognizing the needs of a port city that saw hundreds visit each year, many in a strange place for the first time, offered food for the hungry, beds for the homeless and medical care to the sick. "How did I get here?"

The woman, in her late fifties, with long greying hair gathered in a looped braid and dressed in a plain brown velvet gown, shook her head as she concentrated on his back. "Someone left you at the front gate," she said, her disapproval of such an action evident from her tone of voice.

Eomund tried to think back, remembered the beginning of the punishment, hearing Bothlan call out the strokes, the sound of his own whimpering sobs, hearing the count reach fifty-eight, then nothing.

He had been unconscious long before the beating was completed, the blood running down his back to drip from his heels when Bothlan finally draped his limp form over his massive shoulders and told his captain the boy was dead. Captain Radonath had nodded and ordered him thrown overboard and Bothlan had carried him to the rear of the ship, but once there he had done the unthinkable. Bothlan had, like Mal and the Captain, begun to suspect Eomund was telling the truth, and the only thing he could think of worse than beating the son of Gondor's Steward was beating him to death. So Bothlan had done something unimaginable, something he never would have dreamed of any other time. He had disobeyed and lied to his Captain of more than twenty-two years. He held back as much as he could on the strokes, he miscounted when the Captain was called away for a moment, so that Eomund received eighty-seven lashes, rather than the prescribed one hundred, he told the Captain the boy was dead when he was not, and at the ship's stern he did not throw him overboard.

He had carried Eomund below decks to his own tiny cabin, wrapped him in the cleanest shirt the first mate possessed and kept him hidden there until they had reached Pelargir late that night and in the dark solitude of the wee hours, Bothlan had taken Eomund and carried him to the House of Mercy, hoping the ladies there would be able to keep him alive. He had gently deposited the bloody body near the gate and pounded on the wooden door, shouting, until he heard someone coming, then disappeared into the darkness, watching from the shadows as the door had first been cautiously opened and then thrown wide as the women on duty rushed out to collect their new arrival. Bothlan had returned to the ship as silently as he had gone.

But Eomund knew none of this, could only remember the endless bite of the rod as it slashed down across him time after time and remembering, he gave a involuntary quiver. Instantly the woman stopped her ministrations. "Am I hurting you?"

He gave her a weak smile. "No, my lady." He moved his arm a bit, realized it was no longer bound. "My arms – they were tied, before?" he said and the woman looked embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, I had to keep you still, you were delirious, trying to get up, roll over. I feared you would harm yourself." She hesitated. "The last man I tended with a back like yours – " She frowned, would not meet Eomund's eyes. "He died. He would not keep still and tore at his wounds and they became infected…I thought if I could keep you quiet, not moving, and give your back a chance to clot and scab over, you would do better." She shrugged one shoulder self-consciously and began winding a fresh bandage around his wounds. "Apparently I was correct," she said softly.

Eomund remembered the gentle touch, soft words. "You were here, that was you?" She nodded and he closed his eyes and sighed. "I thought it was my mother." The woman paused and reached down to pat his arm.

"It was me, but I have sons of my own, I know how your mother would have cared for you if she had been here." She checked her work, seemed satisfied. "Are you thirsty?" Eomund nodded and she left the room, returning in minutes with a cup and a pitcher of water. She had to hold the cup for him, his own hand was too unsteady, and he barely had the strength to lean up on his elbow, but he drank three cupfuls before he lay back, drained and trembling. A sudden thought came to him and he looked up at her.

"How long have I been here?"

"This is the seventh day," she said, giving Eomund a small rather apologetic smile when she saw his surprise.

"Seven days?" He was shocked.

"I did not think you would live, the first few days," she admitted. "You had a very high fever, and your back…" she gave a shiver. "Who did such a thing to you?"

Eomund looked at the tiny window. "My Captain," he said softly.

"You should turn him in to the authorities," said the woman in righteous tones. "Why did he do it?"

"I killed a man." Eomund watched her expression change and felt bitter shame, saw Mal's face in his mind. "Not on purpose," he said. "But it was my fault."

"Still." She sounded dubious. "King Elessar is trying to stop such brutality among the ship's captains."

"I know." Eomund suddenly realized he was exhausted; that he didn't want to think about the _Crescent Moon_ or the King, or Mal, and he let his eyes close and the woman was instantly quiet, gathering up her things in silence and turning to go.

"I'll check back in a while," she said and he nodded slightly. She hesitated. "Do you have anyone nearby I could contact?" she asked. "Your mother, perhaps?" She saw the young man bite his lip as though to hold back a cry.

"No," he said finally. "There is no one." She said nothing more and left the room and Eomund let the tears slide from his eyes. He was alive. He could not understand how, but he was and now he wanted only to get back home, make his way to Minas Tirith and make his amends. The woman's offer had surprised him and he had been tempted, tempted to ask her to write his mother, wishing he could simply stay in the House of Mercy and wait for someone to come for him. But he had rejected the idea as soon as it had come, knew it was for him to go home, face the King, and his father. That was his duty, his promise to Mal, and he would fulfill it. The worst had happened and he had survived, and now he had only to make it home. He wept silently as he drifted off to sleep.

Over the next few days Eomund slept and ate and gradually regained his strength. By the end of another week he was on his feet and moving carefully about the room. At his insistence the woman, whose name he discovered was Rammell, brought a set of mirrors to him so he could inspect the healing wounds on his back. Having Rammell hold one and maneuvering the other, he eventually could get an adequate view and silently inspected the injuries. The healed cuts and knotted scars from the previous punishments had been torn open once more by Bothlan's strokes, leaving an angry red mass of lacerated flesh from his shoulders to his waist, now thick with scabs and still seeping gashes, the puckered scar tissue forming ridges across his back. "It is really healing quite well, considering how bad it was," said Rammell. "It will fade as time passes."

"It doesn't matter," said Eomund, thoughtfully staring into the mirror. "I deserved them all."

Rammell looked shocked and angry. "No, Eomund." He had told her his name but not his identity, only that he was a sailor and she had become fond of the young man. Now she shook her head in disagreement. "No one deserves that kind of punishment."

"I did," he said quietly, handing the mirror back to her. They stood in an awkward silence, and he took a deep breath, testing, finding it caused a good bit of discomfort but no sharp spike of pain. "When can I go?" he asked.

"Whenever you want," she answered. She smiled. "Go with the blessings of this house." He returned the smile.

"Thank you."

In only a few hours he had left the House of Mercy and made his way to his home, claiming his spare key from his neighbor, a young woman with three small children whose own husband was away at sea, who gave the baggy clothes Rammell had found him a strange look. He offered no explanation, merely thanked her and went into his small house, smelling the stale air of months of emptiness. He was away so much he kept no servants and the house had been uninhabited since he had been called to Minas Tirith by the King months ago

Quickly he dressed in his own clothes, pulling his tunic carefully over the bandages, and packed his things. He had to search through the house for an old sword, and as he went through the sitting room he saw the letter on his desk. The letter from his mother that he had received only a few days before the King's summons. He read over it, the words that had angered him before now raking at his conscience. "I wish you would come home for a visit," she had written. "I miss you, and your father has not been well. I think it would cheer him to see you." Eomund closed his eyes and stifled a cry. She had written week after week, imploring him to come home, and he had ignored her. Shame flooded him and he returned the letter to the desk and picked up his pack. Buckling the sword around his waist he opened a small locked box and took out enough money to buy passage to Osgiliath and a horse to Minas Tirith, then he left the house once more, locking the door and returning the key to the neighbor before heading to the harbor.

* * *

As he rode through the last level of the city Eomund could feel his heart begin to race and his mouth go dry, but he knew he was doing the right thing, and he had promised Mal, so he kept moving upward through the city until he reined the horse to a stop before the great bronze doors of the Citadel. He dismounted painfully. The long ride on the horse had not been kind to his wounded back and he rested his head against the animal for a moment before he turned and approached the guards at the door. "I am Eomund, son of Faramir, and I would request an audience with King Elessar," he said to them. One of the guards recognized him and said that the King was holding meetings today, but he would surely want to see Eomund and he would go tell the King if he could wait. Eomund said he would be happy to wait and was ushered into the throne room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a soft thud.

The afternoon sun sparkled through the windows and gave a blazing white halo to the marble statues that filled the hall and Eomund felt his heart swell as he gazed around him. The pride he always felt in this room had grown and matured in his months away and he closed his eyes for a moment and vowed to be more worthy of such a heritage in the future.

His back was beginning to throb and he looked around him hesitantly before he lowered himself onto the last step of the dais, braced his shoulder against the Steward's chair and leaned forward to rest his head against his knees, wrapping his arms around them. The room was warm and quiet, and he was worn out from the ride and his injuries, and in minutes he was dozing.

"Eomund?" The King's voice beside him startled him awake and as Aragorn bent down and shook him gently it sent a flash of pain down him, and he jerked upright, his blue eyes fuzzy with sleep even as he cried out. He looked up into the clear grey eyes and for a moment was confused as to whether he was facing his father or his king, but in seconds he realized it was Aragorn and he turned and clumsily knelt on the floor, clasping his hands to Aragorn's boots and pressing his face against them.

"My Lord." The full impact of what he had to confess suddenly overwhelmed him and he had to stop and take a deep breath. "Forgive me, my Lord. I have failed you. I have not found my sister. I'm sorry. I looked, everywhere." His voice broke and he could not keep the tremor under control. "Forgive me, Sire. I'm sorry. I will gladly accept any punishment you give…" He clutched at the King ankles and repeated his apology. "I'm sorry."

"Eomund." Gently Aragorn reached down, tried to draw the young man up on his feet, but he only shook his head and held onto the King's boots until at last Aragorn sat down on the step above him, put an insistent hand under his chin and raised his head. "Eomund, look at me." Aragorn was an observant man. Within seconds he had taken in the poor fit of Eomund's clothes, as if he had lost weight, his darkly tanned skin, the older sword he wore, the missing ring that the King knew never left his finger. But more than than, he saw a subtle change in the blue eyes, the haughty look had been wiped away from Eomund of Gondor's face and Aragorn was curious, but did not ask. Instead he smiled. "Estel has been found."

"Found?" Eomund repeated the word blankly and the King nodded.

"Found, over two months ago." Aragorn shifted slightly, pried Eomund's hands away from his boots. "She's in Edoras." He looked at Eomund questioningly. "You are the one we were beginning to worry about. I sent word when she was found but we never heard from you. I knew you were traveling, but it has been weeks." He raised his eyebrows and Eomund dropped his head again.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I was – " he stopped, sighed, shook his head. "I was detained."

"Detained." Aragorn suspected there was much more to it than 'detained' but Eomund merely nodded. "Well. I am glad you are here. How are you? Are you hungry? Come and have something to eat, and give me your news." He got to his feet and reached down, grasping Eomund's arm to pull him upright.

Eomund's nod of agreement was halted by his grimace of pain and involuntary gasp as the King inadvertently twisted the healing wounds. Instantly Aragorn froze and looked at him, the younger man's earlier lethargy and tentative movements suddenly all coming together in his mind. "You are injured?" he asked, his grey eyes pinned on Eomund, who could only give a short jerk of his head, his face suddenly ashen underneath the tan.

"It is nothing," he said even as the tight lines that appeared around his mouth betrayed the untruth of his words.

"Come with me." Aragorn let Eomund finish standing on his own power, then turned and headed toward his chambers, Eomund walking beside him in silence, his head down. When they entered the King's rooms he pointed to a chair and Eomund eased himself into it with a ragged breath. "Now, where?" Aragorn asked. Eomund remembered the King's cold anger from his last visit and thought of his failure to fulfill his charge, and for a moment he held back, but when he raised his eyes he saw nothing but compassion and concern, saw the man he had known all his life, the King with the hands of a healer, and he painfully removed his tunic.

Aragorn's face paled as he looked at the bandages covering Eomund's back and he slowly unwrapped them to reveal the healing cuts and gashes. "Who did this to you?" he asked in a terrible voice.

Eomund shook his head. "It does not matter, my Lord."

"It does matter."

"No, Sire." Eomund looked up at him and for the first time he could ever remember Aragorn saw Faramir before him in this son, strong and faithful and true. "It does not. Know only that it has helped me to become a better man, in the end." His dark blue eyes held nothing but honesty and sincerity as he met Aragorn's gaze and the King knew at once he would never hear the story of these injuries from Eomund. But he saw Eomund's proud gaze now tempered with humility and once more Faramir's shadow was in Eomund's face. "It is not important," said Eomund, "except in how it changed me."

The King held his gaze, recognized that there had been a change in him, and he pressed his mouth shut in a tight line and said nothing, only went to a cupboard and dug through it until he came to a small jar of ointment. "You saw a healer?" Eomund nodded.

"In Pelargir."

Aragorn removed the lid of the jar and stood before Eomund, motioning him to lean forward and rest his head against him and Eomund did so, trustingly laying his head against the King as he gently rubbed the ointment over his back. A soothingly familiar coolness spread across Eomund and he sighed with relief, began to feel drowsy again as Aragorn's gentle touch smoothed the ointment over his aching flesh. Aragorn could feel him relax and reached up to hold him steady, letting his hand rest across the back of Eomund's head as the other continued its slow, easy movement across his back. "I never meant for you to come to harm, Eomund. Only to find your sister, and perhaps consider making amends with your father."

"I know, my Lord." Eomund's voice was muffled against him, but firm. "Things happen that no one plans. It is the way of life." He pulled back a little and looked up at the King. "Where is Father?"

Aragorn studied him closely. Saw by the waiting look on his face that if he chose to deny Eomund the information, to deny him access to Faramir, he would accept it and bide his time, and wondered again at this change. He closed up the ointment and re-wrapped the bandage around Eomund before pulling up another chair and sitting down opposite him. "He is in Rivendell," he finally said.

Eomund nodded, slowly pulled on his tunic and looked down at his feet for a moment. "How is he?" He raised anxious eyes to the King, who made a gesture with his head from side to side.

"He is better, I believe, not recovered completely, but making progress."

"Oh." Eomund was silent but Aragorn could see he was thinking of how to form his request. "Can I see him?" he asked finally. "I want to talk to him." He lowered his eyes again. "I need to apologize."

Aragorn just looked at him and Eomund forced himself to look up, meet his thoughtful gaze, felt once again as if the King could look through him and peer into his very soul, but this time he met the searching grey eyes evenly. He waited, expecting the answer to be 'no' and trying to prepare himself. He would wait as long as he needed to for a chance to see his father. At last the King slowly nodded. "You may go to Rivendell," he said gravely. "But not for a few days." He watched the surprise and pleasure blossom and then instantly drain from Eomund's face but the familiar frown of annoyance and irritation never appeared. Eomund merely waited to see if there was going to be a reason given. "I want you to stay here and get some rest, first," said Aragorn. "Give your back a little more time to heal before you start off."

"Yes, my Lord." Eomund nodded his head and stood when Aragorn did. "Is anyone of my family here in the city?"

"Only Theoden and Elabet," said Aragorn and gave Eomund a smile. "You'll be an uncle any day now. Alasse is in Edoras with Estel, your mother stayed there a while but now has gone on to Rivendell to be with your father. Sam is on patrol in Minas Ithil, and Elboron has returned to the northern regions." He saw Eomund's surprise. "The Rohirrim are reporting orcs on the move, I find myself more in need of a captain than a steward right now." He sighed, grew serious. "And I'm hopeful your father will be returning soon." Shaking his head, he reached over and drew Eomund's head to his shoulder in a cautious embrace. "Welcome home, Eomund."

"Thank you, Sire." Eomund pressed his face against the King and let the realization sink in. He was home. Estel was found, and there would be no punishment. His promise to Mal was half fulfilled. Now he would go to Rivendell.

* * *

To Be Continued

* * *

**Note: **Thank you Catherine Maria for excellent Beta work, as usual! Clairon and PFaz for encouragement, and all reviewers!


	11. A Devotion

* * *

Chapter 11 – A Devotion:

* * *

"You'll be leaving for Ithilien, soon." Celeborn glanced at Eowyn as they walked toward the stables and she nodded her head slowly. 

"He has not spoken of it yet, but it has been three weeks since Faramir has had a nightmare," she said, reaching down to catch a bit of dried grass in her fingers and twirling it absently as she walked along the path. "He has been sleeping the night through." She smiled at the Elf Lord and he smiled back. "I think we are about ready to go home."

"I am pleased, my lady." He had seen the gradual disappearance of the dark circles from under Faramir's eyes and had surmised that the bad dreams were finally easing. "He seems nearly recovered."

"Yes." Eowyn stopped at the stable door and turned to him. "How can I thank you for all you have done, my Lord?" Her green eyes met his and Celeborn saw the gratitude in her face and he smiled again.

"There is no need, Eowyn. I did very little, as you well know. Faramir needed only some time, and I am pleased to see him better. He is a noble man, worthy of the love you and Aragorn bear him."

"He is." The large grey horse that Eowyn had ridden from Ithilien heard his mistress's voice and poked his head from the stall so that she could rub his nose and she did so, her fingers gently scratching at the soft skin along his nostrils. The Elf also reached up to pat the horse's muscular neck.

"There are many who would not have been able to fight against such despair," he said quietly. "Men who would have crumbled, allowed themselves to be overtaken by sorrow and hopelessness." Eowyn could only nod as he talked. "I remember his father's end." Celeborn's face held sympathy. "I am glad he did not follow that path."

"He came so close." Eowyn could not keep the tremor from her voice and looked up, surprised, when Celeborn rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. The eyes of the Elf Lord were warm as he looked at her.

"He had what his father did not – a loving wife, a loving family, loving friends." Eowyn returned his smile and ducked her head, not wanting to cry before the Elf. He understood and with a last pat to the horse he turned to go back to the house. "Enjoy your ride, my Lady."

Eowyn stood petting the horse for a moment thinking, before she cleared her throat and entered the stall to take down the saddle.

* * *

"Unless you want to start right away?" The male Elf speaking was shuffling through an ancient book before him, seeking a particular page, when he realized he had lost his Lord's attention. Celeborn was looking past him, toward the stone bridge, as a rider approached. The two Elves waited as the horse came closer to them, the man on its back looking around him as though unsure of his surroundings. When he reached the bottom of the porch steps he dismounted and gazed up at the Elves hesitantly. Finally he bowed. "My lords." 

As he straightened Celeborn looked him over closely, suspicion already becoming certainty in his mind. This tall young man with black hair well past his shoulders and striking dark blue eyes could only be a child of Faramir's, he felt sure. There was enough similarity in their features and he wore a small badge on his tunic, the right side black with a white tree, for Gondor, the left a green tree on a white field, signifying his allegiance to the Prince of Ithilien. The Elf waited, considering, confident that this was not only Faramir's son, but the son who had done so much harm, and as such, might have to be denied permission to see his father. Celeborn returned the bow respectfully but said nothing.

Eomund stared up at the Elves, feeling small and insignificant next to their beauty and grace and for a moment when he opened his mouth nothing would come out. He knew Elves, of course, Legolas and his kin had lived in Ithilien since before Eomund had been born, but all the tales he had ever heard or read of Rivendell had not prepared him for its splendor, even in its last days, nor the attractiveness of its inhabitants, and he realized with some surprise he wanted the tall solemn Elf before him to think well of him. Such fair folk who could create a place of glorious beauty like this were surely equally fair within. He suddenly became conscious that long moments had passed as he stared at the Elves and he blushed in embarrassment.

"I am Eomund, son of Faramir," he said, pulling his shoulders back and facing them as if he were ready for inspection, little knowing Celeborn was doing just that. "I have come from Gondor seeking my father and mother."

"Welcome to Rivendell, Eomund, son of Faramir." The Elf's voice was dispassionate, neither welcoming nor forbidding, and Eomund instantly noted that no information had been given about his parents, not even confirmation that they were at the Last Homely House. Hesitantly he reached for the letter that the King had given him before he left Minas Tirith. He had said it was for the Lord Celeborn and Eomund found himself hoping it held a word of assurance that might convince the Elf of his legitimacy and thus gain him a true welcome.

"King Elessar of Gondor sends his greetings, and a letter for the Lord Celeborn." He took a deep breath and stepped forward to hand the folded parchment to the Elf, feeling distinctly uncomfortable when he looked up to see the pale eyes resting curiously on him.

"I am Celeborn, Lord Eomund." Celeborn thanked him with a slight twist of an eyebrow and was mildly surprised to see the look of pleasure and anxious recognition of the name that appeared on the Man's face. He broke open the seal on the letter, reading down through it with care as Eomund waited apprehensively. The other Elf watched him closely, his eyes traveling up and down the Man and Eomund knew the small rudeness was deliberate, a test, and he stayed silent, keeping his eyes on the Elf Lord before him and made no response.

Celeborn casually studied Aragorn's letter and Eomund had a sudden fear. What if the Elf refused to let him see his father? Or even to stay at Rivendell? Forcing down the worry he made himself stand patiently until the Elf looked up from the parchment. His eyes flicked across Eomund, then down to the letter once more.

_I do not know what all has befallen him, Celeborn, but it is my belief that he truly wishes to make amends with his father. I leave the decision to your judgment, since you have spent the time with Faramir, but if possible, I would ask that you let them speak to one another. _

Celeborn read the remaining paragraphs slowly, watching the young man from the corner of his eye, saw him glance up once and nervously meet Salennar's eye beside him and the other Elf met his gaze with a measuring look, then turned and looked at Celeborn, giving a slight shake of his head, barely perceptible, and Celeborn knew he did not want to let the young man of Gondor stay, knew that Salennar had fought in the Last Alliance and considered all Men weak and untrustworthy and he sighed. He did not share that belief, at least not for all Men, and he trusted Aragorn's judgment. If the King of Gondor felt that Eomund should be permitted to see his father, Celeborn would allow it. He folded the parchment.

"Your parents are indeed here, my lord, although your mother has gone riding, as she does many mornings. She is usually away for a few hours, but I would be glad to direct you to your father."

"I would be most grateful, Lord Celeborn." Eomund started to climb the steps, then looked uncertainly at his horse.

"Salennar, if you would be so kind," said Celeborn and the other Elf went to take the reins from Eomund, giving him a look that said he had searched for something in the Man and found it missing. Eomund gave him a small, uneasy smile of gratitude and followed Celeborn up the stairs and through the wide front door. As they entered the House Eomund looked around him, feeling like a country peasant in the city. The architecture, design and décor of the Last Homely House was exquisite and he found himself staring and craning his neck as he followed the Elf through halls and passages and up at least one flight of steps. He wondered if he should say something rather than trail along behind but nothing he could think of seemed appropriate so he merely followed Celeborn, his trepidation increasing with each step.

Finally they stood at the end of a hallway and the Elf pointed. "The last room on the right." He did not move, however, but merely stood, his arm outstretched, and Eomund hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. He chewed his lip for a moment, his eyes locked on the door at the end of the long hall as the true reason for this trip came crashing back down on him.

"How is he?" His blue eyes met the Elf's and Celeborn was pleased to see nothing more than honest concern in them. Whatever arrogance had initiated the conflict between father and son was not visible to the Elf and he allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips.

"He is well," he said and Eomund looked at him closely.

"Truly?" Celeborn could hear the hopeful note in his voice and he nodded slightly, saw relief and gladness wash over the young man's face and he gestured toward the door, silently retreating down the hall as Eomund approached the room.

Faramir had been expecting Lathelinor to come by with some things he and Eowyn had sent to be washed and to save her having to either knock or fumble for the handle he had propped the door to the room open with a chair and now Eomund halted just outside the doorway and looked in at his father.

He sat at the round table with a fresh piece of parchment before him, carefully transcribing something from a large book that lay on the table in front of him, its binding tattered and crumbling. The morning sun slanted through the balcony door and across the floor of the room, the tiny dust motes from the ancient book stirring through the still air each time Faramir dipped his quill into the small ink bottle to his right and Eomund felt a warm rush of unexpected memories.

Countless times as a child he had stood in the doorway of the library at Emyn Arnen and watched his father studiously writing at his desk. Sometimes it was important documents; treaties, military dispatches and government papers; other times it had been private matters such as letters, household notes, occasionally poetry or music. He remembered being pulled up onto his father's knee as a boy and taught his alphabet, given a shortened quill and his own bits of parchment to practice with, and the feel of his small hand enclosed in Faramir's larger one as he guided him in making the strokes of ink appear; his voice softly encouraging the shaky writing, and the slow smile that was reward enough then for Eomund lighting up his father's face when the boy presented him with a perfectly executed character. Later, he could remember lying on his stomach, he and his brothers spread across the green rug, each with their own quill and parchment, practicing their penmanship as another younger sibling was settled in his father's lap and taught the magical symbols that set spoken words on paper.

A sudden wave of shame washed over him as he thought back to those pleasant afternoons in the library. How had he ever imagined his father uncaring, responsible for Bara's death? Father had never done anything but love and encourage all of them and Eomund, remembering his accusations in the city and at home in Ithilien, nearly turned away, ashamed to face him. But another memory kept him there, that of Mal's bloody face and the look in his eyes as he stared up at Eomund from the deck of the _Crescent Moon_. "Promise me" he had said, and Eomund had promised. Promised to not only come home but to learn from his mistakes, find his father and apologize, and now he would do just that.

He raised his hand and gave a slight rap on the door as he stepped into the room. "Father?"

The sound of his voice startled Faramir and he looked up, convinced he was mistaken, could not have recognized the speaker, only to find Eomund crossing the floor in his direction.

"Eomund?"

He stood up just as Eomund reached him and he grasped his son by the shoulders, looking at him in amazement. Eomund stopped and looked into his eyes, trying to prepare himself for the rejection he was sure he would see there, the consequences of his hard words, and he braced himself. But when he met his father's eyes he saw only wonder and delight and Faramir gathered his son into his arms and pulled him close, not noticing the faint wince as he hugged him tightly. Eomund wrapped his arms around his father and returned the embrace, feeling as if he could laugh and cry at the same time. He laid his head on Faramir's shoulder and felt his father's hand reach up, rest on the crown on his head and hold him closer and a great wave rose up in Eomund and he tightened his hug.

Faramir held his son, overjoyed to see him and trying to understand how he had suddenly appeared before him in Rivendell, and then felt Eomund's hug tighten around him and decided it did not matter so long as he was there, when suddenly Eomund's arms loosened and his son fell to his knees before him.

"Father." Eomund clutched at his father's hands and bent his dark head over them, remembering his terrible accusations. He pressed his cheek against Faramir's hands and kissed them and found himself unexpectedly weeping. "Forgive me, Father. Please, I'm so sorry…"

"Eomund!" Faramir sat back down in shock. Pulling his right hand free he cupped it along Eomund's cheek and turned his face up to him, looked into the tear-filled blue eyes with astonishment. "What are you doing?"

"I came to find you, to apologize," said Eomund in a broken voice, once more lowering his head and Faramir felt hot tears splash onto his hand. "For all the awful things I said to you. Please, forgive me."

"E'mun," said Faramir softly, stroking the black hair and leaning down to press his forehead against the top of Eomund's head. "It's all right – "

"No, no." Eomund shook his head fiercely but did not look up. "It is not all right. I hurt you, I said things that were cruel and unfair. I'm sorry, Father." He gulped and raised his head to meet Faramir's gaze. "I knew it was not your fault, Bara's accident, but I was sad and angry and I wanted it to be, and I said horrible things." His fingers dug into Faramir's hand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He squeezed his father's hand convulsively and sobbed quietly. "Please, please say you forgive me."

Faramir wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders and pulled him close and Eomund, still clutching his father's hand, burrowed closer, burying his face against his shirt. Faramir held him as tightly as he could, feeling the quivering of Eomund's body as he wept against him, and he gently kissed the black hair and let a tear slip from his own eyes. "I forgive you, E'mun," he said quietly, and felt Eomund press even closer, at last loosening his grip on Faramir's hand to slide his arms around his father's waist and hug him.

"Thank you, Father," he whispered hoarsely as Faramir gathered him in his arms and held him. He was still for a moment, just resting his head against his father's chest, feeling his arms around him and reveling in the knowledge he was forgiven, that his father did not hate him. Eomund felt as if a terrible weight had gone from him and he sighed and rubbed his face against the soft fabric where it lay.

"I have missed you," said Faramir softly and gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

"And I have missed you. I was wrong to go away. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I never want to hurt you or anyone else like that again." Eomund's voice was muffled. "Never." He gave a little shudder and settled against Faramir, shifting slightly on the floor without loosening his hold on his father. They sat quietly for a while, Eomund listening to the slow steady beat of the heart beneath him while Faramir's hand tenderly caressed his son's tangled black hair. Faramir felt a wonderful sense of peace come over him. Eomund had come, and was before him, and things would be better. They would not end up like he and Denethor, he would make sure of it. He pulled Eomund closer to him once more, held him tightly.

"You are well?" Eomund pulled back a little, looked up into his father's face, and Faramir nodded. Eomund lowered his head again and leaned against him. "I'm sorry I said such cruel things," he said softly. "I'm sorry you got sick…"

"Shh, E'mun," Faramir soothed him. "You have apologized. I have forgiven you. Let us not dwell on it. It is past." He decided to change the subject of the conversation.

"Your mother said you were summoned by the King, sent to seek Estel." Faramir felt Eomund nod and he looked up at him again.

"He was very angry with me," he said. "You cannot imagine how angry."

A faint smile crept across Faramir's features. "I have seen him angry, Eomund." He reached out and gave his face a gentle pat. "It is not a pleasant sight, is it?" His look suggested he and Eomund shared an amusing secret and Eomund could not help smiling back.

"No, Father, not at all." The smile faded as he thought of his failure to find Estel. "But I did not find her."

"But thankfully she was found, nevertheless." Faramir tugged on his arm and pointed to the chair beside him. "Where did you look? I feel certain you made a thorough search!" He gave Eomund a teasing grin, finding a sudden lightheartedness had come over him. "Tell me of your adventures."

Eomund pulled the chair closer and scooted up into it before he began. "I went everywhere. I went to Dol Amroth first, because that is where she fooled us all into thinking she was going. I searched there, I searched Osgiliath, again! I searched Pelargir, and anywhere else I could think of." He detailed his travels to Faramir, telling of his dismay and growing alarm when every promising lead proved false and Faramir listened and asked questions and watched his son's face as he talked, taking pleasure in the light in the blue eyes and the animation of his face.

"…and I decided I should at least look, so I went to Umbar," said Eomund, and faltered and stopped. He had sworn time and again on the _Crescent Moon_, to Mal and to himself, that he would never reveal any details of his 'timed service' to anyone. He saw curiosity on his father's face and he dropped his head, staring at his hands in silence.

"Eomund?" Faramir reached over and grasped his arm, sensing his discomfort.

Eomund clasped his hands before him and swallowed, cleared his throat. "It had been over a month," he said in a shaky voice. "I couldn't find her anywhere, and I hadn't heard from Bron." He glanced up at his father. "We didn't know where you were, or how you were, or anything…"

Faramir had been surprised when Eowyn had informed him Aragorn had kept his whereabouts secret but he merely nodded slightly to encourage Eomund to continue, saw him shift uneasily in his chair, his face showing some sort of inner struggle and he waited, regretful that his illness had troubled his son.

Eomund hunched over his knees and sighed. He had vowed to keep silent, ashamed of his behavior in Umbar and the results, but the longer he waited, the more he found himself wanting to tell his father, to share that time of guilt and fear and talk of what he had learned and watch his father's face to see if he understood and approved. Suddenly it seemed vital that Faramir know everything. Not so much about how he had first arrived on the ship, but about Mal, and what he had learned, and how he had grown up in those awful weeks on board, and he raised his head and looked into calm grey eyes full of love, and he took a deep breath.

"I went to Umbar…I was feeling sorry for myself, and …" His voice faded and he looked down at the floor as he stumbled over his next words. "And I got drunk and got robbed and got arrested." Shaking his head he continued without looking up. "Since I didn't have any money I had to serve my time…and in Umbar the local courts have debtors work off their fines, so I ended up on a little merchant ship."

"Merchant ship." There was a strange catch to Faramir's voice and Eomund looked up to find his father's face had lost all of its color and he was staring at Eomund with an unsettled expression. He stared at the floor again, angry with himself for disappointing his father.

"I know. It was stupid and foolish of me. You always warned us about drinking, especially in strange places. I was - " The touch of Faramir's hand on his shoulder stopped him and he raised his head and met troubled grey eyes.

"A merchant ship," said Faramir again and Eomund nodded, saw his father's face grow wary and apprehensive. "With a black-haired captain?" Eomund nodded again, his surprise evident in his face. Faramir blinked slowly before he spoke again, as though he were gathering his strength. "And a big man, big muscles?" Eomund's mouth was dry as he nodded once more. The long fingers gently moved down across the back of his tunic as if seeking something.

"E'mun, let me see your back." The words were choked out between clenched teeth and Eomund, knowing his father had seen true visions in the past, saw the knowledge in his eyes, and he reached behind him without a word and pulled the tunic over his head, revealing the scars and nearly healed wounds that covered his spine.

The cry was involuntary, forced from Faramir by shock and sorrow and Eomund felt his father's hand brush cautiously across the mangled skin and saw the devastated look come over his face.

"I thought it was a dream," Faramir whispered, his fingers moving lightly over the raised scars. "I never thought it was real – E'mun – "

"You saw." Eomund lowered his eyes, remembered clinging to the mast, the slashing sound the rod made as it came down through the air, and how he had fixed his thoughts on his father, how he had begged for his forgiveness there on the ship, certain he would die from the beating.

"I didn't know it was real," Faramir said again and he laid his hand gently across Eomund's scars. He remembered the night, the images that had assaulted his sleep with glaring clarity. He had been able to hear the sound of the rod cutting through the air, the wet slap as it slashed across broken, bleeding skin, Eomund's tortured cries and the impassive face of the man wielding the rod as the captain watched. It had not brought him awake, but had flared into his mind, rousing him just a little and then wavered and shimmered and faded and he had drifted back to sleep, dismissing it the next morning, sure after months of nightmares it was just another bad dream. Now he looked at Eomund, his face full of regret. "I'm sorry, E'mun."

"Sorry?" Eomund shook his head and smiled grimly. "There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Father. It was my fault, my own stupidity and hard-headedness and carelessness, nothing you did. And you could not have helped me."

"Still…"

"No, Father, there is no reason for you to apologize." Faramir watched as Eomund pulled his tunic back on and faced him. "I thought I would die there," he said. "And all I could think of was how badly I had hurt you, and how sorry I was, and that you would never know, because of my stupidity." He looked down at his hands again, moved uncomfortably in the chair. "I killed a man, Father." His gaze shot up, seeking Faramir's reaction, saw nothing but a calm, waiting look, no judgment, no conclusion and he felt a warm rush toward his father. "He was my friend, and it was my fault. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it did."

Still nothing from his father and Eomund dropped his head into his hands. "I learned a lot from him," he said.

"What did you learn?" Faramir's voice was hushed and he leaned forward and took Eomund's hands in one of his own, raised his son's head and held the bright blue eyes with his own grey ones. "Eomund?"

Eomund found his eyes filled with tears once more. "I learned to listen. To keep my mouth shut and do my duty. I learned that sometimes things happen and no one is at fault." His voice was shaking as he finished. "I'm not the same man I was, Father, and not just because of this." He motioned with his head toward his back.

His father released him and leaned back slightly to study Eomund thoroughly, his gaze taking in not only the physical changes, the sun-darkened skin, the missing ring, but also the change in his son's eyes. "Yes. You are different."

"I hope so," said Eomund. "I don't like the person I was. I don't want to be that person anymore." He reached out and grasped his father's hand again. "I never want to hurt you again." Wordlessly Faramir put his hand up and patted his son's cheek and Eomund knew he would never hear his father speak of it; he was truly forgiven. He hesitated. "I don't want Mother to know, about – my back. It would upset her." Faramir pursed his lips thoughtfully and then gave a faint nod of agreement.

"She will find out eventually."

"I know." Eomund shook his head. "Just not yet." His father shrugged slightly as if to say it was up to him and leaned back, studying him. Eomund felt uncomfortable. "What?"

Faramir smiled and shook his head. "Nothing. I am so pleased to see you." He hesitated, gathering his thoughts and the smile left him. "I feared losing you, E'mun." He looked up at his son. "I was afraid we were starting down the same road that my father and I traveled, and I don't want that to ever happen, with you or any of my children."

"I feared the same thing," said Eomund quietly as his blue eyes met Faramir's. "I don't want that either." He hesitated, decided to risk the question. "What happened? Between and grandfather, I mean?" His voice trembled slightly as he asked, remembering Elboron's warning of years past and he saw his father pause and grow thoughtful.

"I'm not sure," he said. "It just always was that way. I never could find a reason that made sense to me, and after a while I stopped trying." Eomund saw his face go still as his father called up past memories, saw the faint trace of confusion, the dim remnant of his desire for the love and approval that had never been given and never would. Faramir gave a little shake of his head and focused on his son once more. "But I do know I never want that with any of you. I want you all to know that I love you, I'm proud of you."

"Even when I acted the way I did?" Eomund said in a sober voice. "You weren't proud of that, were you? I know I'm not."

"No," Faramir answered truthfully. "I was not proud of you then. But," he looked into Eomund's eyes, his own dark and serious. "I am proud of you now. And I always love you. Always."

Eomund had to look away and scrub his hand across his eyes. "I know that, Father. I have never doubted that."

* * *

When Eowyn returned from her ride she heard voices coming from the room as she made her way down the hallway and reaching the door she looked in to find her husband and her son seated at the table with a large tray of food, a pitcher of watered wine, and a map spread out in front of them. "Right here," said Eomund, tracing his finger across the map and Faramir followed his path. They both looked up upon hearing Eowyn's startled intake of breath and Eomund's face broke into a smile. "Mother!" He hurried across the room and hugged her, lifting her off the ground and kissing her cheek. Looking over his shoulder Eowyn saw Faramir watching them, smiling as he leaned back in his chair and took a drink of his wine, and she nearly cried with joy. 

"Eomund, what are you doing here?" she managed to gasp when he returned her to the ground.

He looked over at Faramir, who raised his cup to his wife and smiled again. "He's come to take us home."

Eomund nodded in pleased agreement. "Whenever you are ready," he said and Eowyn looked at him, saw something new and yet familiar in his face, and he leaned down and kissed her cheek again. She gazed into his eyes and suddenly realized she saw Faramir in him, a strange, faint echo of his father in his countenance.

"Eomund – " she began, but Faramir interrupted her, handing her a cup of wine and giving her a pleased grin.

"You have a granddaughter," he said, toasting her cup with his own. She looked at him in confusion for a moment before understanding came and she turned to Eomund.

"Truly?"

His grin matched his father's. "The day I left Minas Tirith. She does not have a bit of hair, but her eyes are grey and they have named her Callanor. Theoden is quite pleased with himself." The last was said with eye rolling and Eowyn laughed and returned the toast.

"Callanor," she murmured experimentally and looked at her husband, smiling before her. "Oh yes," she said. "I am ready to go home."

"As am I," said Faramir as he kissed his wife and then hugged his son to him.

* * *

Aragorn kissed Arwen, slowly, letting the noise around them rise and swell, not caring, not thinking of anything other than his wife. No, not completely. A tiny piece of him suddenly focused on his Steward, his friend. Arwen felt the change and drew back, smiled. "Blessed Tidings of the New Year," she said softly. 

"Blessed Tidings," he answered her and they both turned to look across the room. In the small alcove near the window Faramir and Eowyn were still kissing, still lost in one another, much to the embarrassment of their children standing nearby

Aragorn smiled, pleased that their small gathering was familiar enough that Faramir would allow himself to relax to the point that he was unaware that everyone else was watching until at last Estel's mortified voice came in a loud whisper. "Mother!" With a smile and no trace of remorse Eowyn stepped back from her husband, who looked discomfited and immediately slid into his usual reserve.

The King watched as Faramir whispered something in his wife's ear and she laughed, and Aragorn felt a wave of happiness. The man who had returned from Rivendell had been healed, had come back smiling and well and Aragorn had rejoiced to see his friend whole once more. The rift between Faramir and Eomund had been healed as well, and Eomund had stayed with his parents for another week after their return before being re-instated to his position in the Royal Navy by the King and returning to Pelargir. He had come home for the holiday, and Aragorn could see him now across the hall deep in conversation with Elboron, his blue eyes flashing as he spoke. The King gave a little sigh of relief and beside him Arwen laughed softly. "It was a good idea, having a small get-together here," she said, and squeezed his hand and Aragorn nodded.

The large Yestare celebration would be held tomorrow, in Minas Tirith, complete with Lords and Ladies and lights and music, nobility and graciousness along with arrogance and toadying and posturing fools. The King would preside, of course, along with his Queen, and by his side would be the Steward and his Lady. But tonight, for Mettare, they had been invited to Ithilien, to the Prince's home, for a celebration with only Faramir and his family and Aragorn and his. Aragorn had accepted gladly, had wanted to not only share the holiday, but also to check on his Steward. Less than a week ago had been the one-year anniversary of Barahir's death, and although Faramir had been home for nearly three months Aragorn still kept a careful eye on him.

Now the King smiled as Faramir kissed his wife once more, much more chastely than before, and came toward him. "Blessed Tidings of the New Year, my Lord, my Lady," he said, bowing slightly before Aragorn and Arwen.

"Blessed Tidings," Arwen returned his greeting and gave Aragorn a smile as she slipped away to join Eowyn on the other side of the room.

"Blessed Tidings, Faramir." Aragorn took a sip from the ornate cup of wine he had been given earlier by one of the servants and leaned back against the mantle to survey the room. All of Faramir's children were home for the holiday, and were gathered around the sitting room in small groups talking and laughing. Aragorn saw his own son and daughter had been folded into one such circle with Alasse and Elabet, her little daughter Callanor bundled in her lap and looking around her with bright eyes. "It is a blessed night, indeed, my lord," said the King. "You are wise to gather your loved ones around you."

Faramir nodded over the edge of his own cup. "I want to have them near as much as possible, now that I know how easy it is to lose them." Aragorn looked at him, trying to disguise his concern. He had feared the date might bring a return of the melancholy that Faramir had struggled against last year. Faramir gave a slight shake of his head that told the King he knew exactly what he was thinking and Aragorn was embarrassed to be so easily exposed by his astute friend. "You need not worry, my lord," Faramir said with a small smile. "I am well."

Aragorn smiled back at him. "I am glad," he said softly and reached over to give Faramir's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "It has been difficult, these last few days, I would imagine."

Faramir merely gave a slight nod, seemed to avoid Aragorn's gaze as he stared across the room. "Difficult days in a trying year." He sighed. "It has not been easy but Eowyn and I have been spending our time together, and with the children, as much as possible." He suddenly turned to face the King. "Thank you, Aragorn, for all you have done, for me and my family. I don't know what might have happened if you had not interceded."

Aragorn met his gaze without discomfort. "I know you were angry with me at first, Faramir, but I was truly afraid. Afraid of what might happen if something were not done, and I had no idea what that should be." He gripped his friend's arm tightly. "My only hope was that Celeborn would prove to be truly wise. And he did." A smile crossed his face and then disappeared as he grew serious once more. "I would not know what to do without you, Faramir." He saw the Steward's face flush and he hurried on. "I mean it. You are my most able counselor, my most efficient steward, my most trustworthy diplomat."

"Sire – "

"And my most beloved friend." Aragorn's voice was soft and he watched Faramir's eyes darken with emotion and he wanted so much to be able to reassure him of his love and affection. "More than anything, I feared losing you, Faramir, as a friend."

Faramir cleared his throat and swallowed, uncomfortable as always with letting his feelings show too easily. He looked away almost shyly, forced himself to look back. "I feel the same, Aragorn. You are very dear to me, more than any other man yet living." Aragorn smiled, knew after all their years together that he had just received the equivalent of an emotional outburst from his Steward.

"Father!" Faramir looked around to find Estel beside him, her face pleading as she pointed across the room, the scene she indicated drawing a smile from both the King and Faramir. Feorl had been invited to Ithilien for the holiday and Prince Elfwine had volunteered to ride with him and then visit with his cousins, but now the young Rider was backed into a corner and both Sam and Elfwine were talking quietly to him, their faces serious. "They have been picking on him all evening," said Estel with a frown. Aragorn raised his eyebrows and quickly took another drink of wine, leaving Faramir to handle the delicate matter but before he could even take a step Eomund appeared beside his younger brother, interrupting the conversation and deftly drawing Feorl away.

"There, Estel," said Faramir reassuringly. "E'mun has rescued him." Estel gave a relieved sigh and turned to follow them, then abruptly turned back and hugged her father tightly.

"I love you, Father."

Faramir immediately set his cup on the mantle and returned her embrace. "I love you, Estel." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head and then laughed when she raised her face and kissed his nose before starting after Eomund and Feorl. When she had returned from Edoras she had apologized for running away, been properly horrified and chastised at the results of her disappearance, and then promptly forgotten everything else in the excitement of her own return home and setting up a meeting between Faramir and Feorl. Her father did not mind, although her mother had belabored the point a few times, but there had been one new behavior that had not worn off even as the days and months passed. Whenever she passed him, Estel would suddenly turn and hug Faramir as hard as she could and say that she loved him. Faramir never tired of it and even now as she hurried after her brother and her beau he watched her go with a smile.

"Are you going to let them marry?" Aragorn looked at his Steward with amusement. "She is so young."

"I don't think I can stop it," said Faramir with a hopeless shake of his head and a wry smile. "She is young, but she is as stubborn as…" He crossed his arms and frowned. "She reminds me so much of Boromir sometimes." Aragorn had been taking another sip of wine and nearly choked as he heard Faramir's words.

"Really?"

Faramir gave him a look of surprise. "Don't you think so?"

"Well, I hardly knew him, Faramir – " Aragorn's denials faltered as Faramir shook his head.

"You knew him long enough to know how hard-headed he was." The King bit his lip to avoid making any comments about the possibility of Boromir's brother sharing that trait and only made a noncommittal noise.

"So," Aragorn tried to steer the conversation back. "You will allow the marriage?"

Faramir shrugged and nodded. "Not for a while, though. Eowyn and I told them they must wait another two years."

"Hmm. Will they?" Estel had already run away from home once, Aragorn thought. She would do it again, he had no doubt.

"No," said Faramir, laughing. "But if we say two years we may get them to wait one."

"Ah." Aragorn made a face, dreading the day of his own children's adulthood. "I would rather fight Easterlings than Estel," he said, only half in jest and laughed at the serious nod of agreement from Faramir. His eyes settled on Feorl across the room, now safely guarded by Eomund and Estel. "He seems like a good man," he said quietly.

"He's little more than a boy himself," said Faramir with a rueful smile. "But Eomer says his captain speaks well of him, and he's bright and eager. He should do well among the Riders. And he loves her." Aragorn could tell from the change in his voice that was the most important qualification in Faramir's mind, knew he would prefer his daughter happy in a small house in Edoras than miserable in a huge one somewhere else. As the Steward's daughter Estel might make a high political marriage, be promised to a lord or noble, but the King knew Faramir would never do that to his daughter, and if she had chosen a Rider because of love, her parents would bless the union.

They fell silent as the threesome they were discussing suddenly got to their feet and headed toward the back door. "Feorl is going to show E'mun his horses," said Estel as they passed by and Aragorn saw the wink Eomund gave his father when he walked by, listening closely as Feorl waxed eloquent about the pedigree of each of the horses he had brought with him from Rohan.

"I thought Eomund detested horses," said Aragorn.

"He does," answered Faramir. "Can't stand them." The two men smiled at each other.

"He's changed a lot." Aragorn looked at Faramir, wanting to make sure it was not an awkward subject, was relieved to see his friend merely nod in agreement.

"It was a difficult year for him, also." said Faramir. "More than the others. He – he learned some hard lessons." He watched the King's eyes follow Eomund out the door before they swung back to him and as the two sets of grey eyes met Faramir knew Aragorn was thinking of the scars on Eomund's back. He knew the King had seen Eomund's injuries the day he returned to Minas Tirith, but had not been told the story behind them and he knew Aragorn would never ask. Should Eomund or his father choose to tell him, the King would gladly listen, but until then the questions would remain unasked.

"I never meant for anything to happen to him, Faramir." Aragorn's voice was tinged with remorse. Faramir looked at him in shock.

"I know that, Aragorn. And so does he." He reached behind him and toyed with his wine goblet, then looked at Aragorn and shook his head. "He learned a lot, but he had to learn it the hard way." They stood quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly Faramir smiled with delight as Elabet and Theoden approached, the baby snuggled sleepily in her mother's arms. "We're going to put her to bed," said Theoden. "I thought you'd want to tell her good night." Without hesitation Elabet placed the small form in Faramir's arms and he held her close, kissed her tiny nose and cheeks as Theoden bowed slightly toward the King.

"Blessed Tidings, Sire," he said softly and Aragorn returned the greeting to him, seeing in Theoden, as always, the man Faramir might have been had he been raised with a loving supportive father, the same quiet scholarly mind nurtured and encouraged and appreciated and, as always, a small part of him ached for his Steward and what he had been denied. He forced himself to reject such thoughts, knew there was no changing the past, and instead watched Faramir with his granddaughter.

"Callanor," Faramir said softly. "Callanor. Sleep well, little one." The baby crinkled up her face but stayed asleep and with another gentle kiss Faramir handed her back to her mother and kissed her cheek, also. She smiled and blushed as she and Theoden turned toward the steps.

"I lost Barahir, Aragorn," said Faramir. "But I could have lost them all." He looked at his King, his friend, and closed his eyes and seemed to shiver slightly. "I nearly lost everything I have." Aragorn knew he was not speaking of the house in Ithilien or the luxurious Steward's apartments in Minas Tirith; knew he was not referring to his titles or position of power.

"But you did not," he said gently. "You won that battle and came through that darkness. And now is the new year, a new beginning."

Faramir nodded and lifted his cup, tipped it toward Aragorn once more. "To the new year, Aragorn."

"The new year, Faramir." And they both drank deeply.

* * *

The scars on Eomund's back faded, as Rammell had said they would, but the wounds had been deep and the scar tissue stayed raised in knots and bumps across his flesh for the rest of his life. He never mentioned them, deftly turning aside any questions if one of his brothers or the men under his command glimpsed the scars and after a while the questions faded, too. Eowyn soon learned that he had been in some trouble in Umbar, spent time on a merchant ship, but he managed to hide the scars from his mother for four years, keeping them unseen by her until one hot summer day when she interrupted him and Elboron as they were working on sword drills on the practice ground at Minas Tirith. Her gasp of horror behind him let Eomund know she had discovered his secret and he turned to find her covering her mouth with her hands as tears filled from her eyes. 

"Mother." He grasped her hand and pulled it down to her side, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. "Don't."

Eowyn had trouble catching her breath, the terrible sight of her son's back had unnerved her and she could only reach out a tentative finger toward the marked and disfigured flesh, but Eomund caught her hand, startling her, and she looked up at him with confusion and sadness. Eomund shook his head and kissed the back of her hand before letting it drop. He turned around to Elboron. "We're through?" His older brother nodded and handed over his sword and Eomund gave him a grin and walked toward the armory, bending down to catch up his tunic from where it lay on the ground, discarded when the heat of the day made their mock swordplay uncomfortable.

Elboron stepped over to his mother and they watched Eomund disappear into the small doorway together and she looked up at him. "What happened? Where did he get those awful scars?"

Elboron shrugged, shook his head. "I don't know. He won't say."

"Won't say?" Eowyn's face took on a determined look that Elboron recognized and he laughed and hugged her.

"Mother, let it go. He's had them for years, and has never told any of us anything." He reached down in the grass for his own tunic and pulled it over his head. "I've asked. Theoden's asked, Sam, Feorl, even Uncle Eomer. He won't tell. Just says he got them when he grew up."

Eowyn was silent but that night as they lay in bed she rolled over to face her husband of many years. "Have you ever seen the scars on Eomund's back?" she asked suddenly, peering closely at him in the candlelight, knowing she would be able to see the answer in his eyes before she heard it from his mouth. Faramir met her gaze with sorrow and she realized he was saddened that she had seen the marks. "You have!" She frowned at him. "How long have you known about them?"

Faramir sighed and lay back on the pillow, staring up at the wooden beams above the bed. "A long time, Eowyn." He looked at her in the dim light. "He did not want you to see them."

"Why?" Eowyn rolled over and pulled the blankets up closer.

"Because he knew you would fuss, just as you are doing now," Faramir said mildly. "How did you see them?"

"He and Bron were doing sword drills," she said. "This afternoon." Faramir only nodded.

They lay in silence for a while until Eowyn turned back to him. "Do you know what happened? Elboron says he will not speak of it, that they have all asked and he won't say." Faramir stayed quiet and Eowyn looked at him suspiciously. "Would you tell me if you knew?"

"Would you want me to if he had asked me to keep silent?" It was nearly dark in the room but Eowyn could well imagine the blank look she was sure was in Faramir's eyes, even if she couldn't see them. She glared at him.

"You know I would not want you to break your word to him." She smoothed the blankets again and gave an annoyed sigh. Faramir turned onto his side and pulled her close in his arms.

"It is in the past," he whispered. "He does not want to speak of it. So I do not. And neither should you."

"But they look so awful," she said in a hushed voice, remembering the stark ridged scars that covered her son's back. "It looks as if whatever happened nearly killed him."

"I think it nearly did. But it did not." Faramir held her against him. "He is alive, so leave it alone."

* * *

Only one other person aside from Faramir ever heard the story of Eomund's scars. 

In the years that followed Eomund became one of the most active patrons of the House of Mercy in Pelargir and in addition to giving large sums of money and his name to the various causes it endorsed, he visited frequently, and it was there one day that Rammell introduced him to Melanya, a nobleman's daughter whose plain face disguised both a sharp wit and a loving and tender heart. Eomund soon found that her presence made his life bright and joyful and after several months he had a ring fashioned that showed the dove of her father's crest perched in a green tree, with a ship behind them on the water. Melanya smiled and placed the ring on her finger and kissed him and on their wedding night when they went to the marriage bed, he told his wife of his voyage on the _Crescent Moon_ and she wept as she ran her fingers down the furrowed skin. It was never mentioned again between them, and when two years later she bore their first child, the small boy with his father's black hair and his mother's soft brown eyes, was named Barahir.

* * *

The End

* * *

**Note:** According to _The Complete Guide to Middle-Earth_, by Robert Foster, Mettare ("last day" – kind of a New Year's Eve) and Yestare ("first day" – rather like New Year's Day) were originally toward the end of the year, at the time of the winter solstice (rather like our Christmas or New Year), but after the Ring War, were respectively moved to the spring, at the time of Sauron's defeat (rather like our Easter). 

One last time: Thanks to Catherine Maria for beta'ing – you're super! Clairon for encouragement, and everyone who reviewed.


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